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"Thank you, Myner," said I; "you're a much better fellow than ever I supposed. I'll write to-night." "O, you're a pretty decent sort yourself," returned Myner, with more than his usual flippancy of manner, but, as I was gratefully aware, not a trace of his occasional irony of meaning. Well, these were brave days, on which I could dwell for ever.
"I won't, if you don't like it," he replied. "You seem to think honesty as easy as Blind Man's Buff: I don't. It's some difference of definition." I went straight from this irritating interview, during which Myner had never discontinued painting, to the studio of my old master.
I hold out no false hopes, but it may be worth your while to let me judge." "And your room?" asked Myner. "O, my room is all right, I think," said I. "She is a very good old lady, and has never even mentioned her bill." "Because she is a very good old lady, I don't see why she should be fined," observed Myner. "What do you mean by that?" I cried. "I mean this," said he.
Myner, a comparatively philosophic Briton, kept me company in my deliberate advance; the glory of the sun's going down, the fall of the long shadows, the inimitable scent, and the inspiration of the woods, attuned me more and more to walk in a silence which progressively infected my companion; and I remember that, when at last he spoke, I was startled from a deep abstraction.
"Your father seems to be a pretty good kind of a father," said he. "Why don't he come to see you?" I was ready with some dozen of reasons, and had more in stock; but Myner, with that shrewdness which made him feared and admired, suddenly fixed me with his eye-glass and asked, "Ever press him?" The blood came in my face. No; I had never pressed him; I had never even encouraged him to come.
The party was completed by John Myner, the Englishman; by the brothers Stennis, Stennis-aine and Stennis-frere, as they used to figure on their accounts at Barbizon a pair of hare-brained Scots; and by the inevitable Jim, as white as a sheet and bedewed with the sweat of anxiety. I suppose I was little better myself when I unveiled the Genius of Muskegon.
Myner, a comparatively philosophic Briton, kept me company in my deliberate advance; the glory of the sun's going down, the fall of the long shadows, the inimitable scent and the inspiration of the woods, attuned me more and more to walk in a silence which progressively infected my companion; and I remember that, when at last he spoke, I was startled from a deep abstraction.
"Thank you," said I. "I can take my answer," and I made as if to go, rage boiling in my heart. "Of course you can go if you like," said Myner, "but I advise you to stay and have it out." "What more is there to say?" I cried. "You don't want to keep me here for a needless humiliation?" "Look here, Dodd; you must try and command your temper," said he.
"Your father seems to be a pretty good kind of a father," said he. "Why don't he come to see you?" I was ready with some dozen of reasons, and had more in stock; but Myner, with that shrewdness which made him feared and admired, suddenly fixed me with his eyeglass and asked, "Ever press him?" The blood came in my face. No, I had never pressed him; I had never even encouraged him to come.
"O dear me, that ever I should have heard such an expression on your lips!" At sight of his distress, I plagiarised unblushingly from Myner. "You seem to think honesty as simple as Blind Man's Buff," said I. "It's a more delicate affair than that: delicate as any art." "O well! at that rate!" he exclaimed, with complete relief. "That's casuistry."
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