in justice to myself, go away
in obedience to the sort of notice that was served on me this morning.
What do you think of my actual footing here?"

Theodore's actual footing here seems to me impossible; of course I said
so.

"No, I assure you it's not," he answered. "I should, on the contrary,
feel very uncomfortable to think that I had come away, except by my own
choice. You see a man can't afford to cheapen himself. What are you
laughing at?"

"I am laughing, in the first place, my dear fellow, to hear on your lips
the language of cold calculation; and in the second place, at your odd
notion of the process by which a man keeps himself up in the market."

"I assure you it's the correct notion. I came here as a particular favor
to Mr. Sloane; it was expressly understood so. The sort of work was
odious to me; I had regularly to break myself in. I had to trample on my
convictions, preferences, prejudices. I don't take such things easily; I
take them hard; and when once the effort has been made, I can't consent
to have it wasted. If Mr. Sloane needed me then, he needs me still. I am
ignorant of any change having taken place in his intentions, or in his
means of satisfying them. I came, not to amuse him, but to do a certain
work; I hope to remain until the work is completed. To go away sooner
is to make a confession of incapacity which, I protest, costs me too
much. I am too conceited, if you like."

Theodore spoke these words with a face which I have never seen him
wear--a fixed, mechanical smile; a hard, dry glitter in his eyes; a
harsh, strident tone in his voice--in his whole physiognomy a gleam, as
it were, a note of defiance. Now I confess that for defiance I have
never been conscious of an especial relish. When I am defied I am
beastly. "My dear man," I replied, "your sentiments do you prodigious
credit. Your very ingenious theory of your present situation, as well as
your extremely pronounced sense of your personal value, are calculated
to insure you a degree of practical success which can very well dispense
with the furtherance of my poor good wishes." Oh, the grimness of his
visage as he listened to this, and, I suppose I may add, the grimness of
mine! But I have ceased to be puzzled. Theodore's conduct for the past
ten days is suddenly illumined with a backward, lurid ray. I will note
down here a few plain truths which it behooves me to take to
heart--commit to memory. Theodore is jealous of Maximus Austin.