“Success! One is successful up to a point; then there is a disappointment that shows what a sham success has been. I’ll never speak to a woman again.” “I’ve been there myself--several times. Still we always return--if not to our first love, to our fourth, or fifth. As for friends, I don’t know any man who has more.” “Not true friends, Haldiman. I haven’t one, I tell you. I did think you were a friend, and you do nothing but sneer at me. You think I don’t see it; I do, all the same. I’m the most sensitive of men, although nobody appears to appreciate it.” “I don’t sneer at you, Barney. What put that in your head? I think you sometimes fail to appreciate other people’s sensitiveness. You are a trifle prone to flaunt Bank of England notes in the faces of those not so well provided as you are with them. Then the sensitive soul rises in rebellion.” “That’s my unfortunate manner, Haldiman. I don’t really mean to do so. If I had a game leg, or a club foot, and came thumping in here with it, you wouldn’t make fun of my defect, would you? Of course not. Well, why should you resent a defect of manner when you know my intentions are good?” “I don’t resent anything about you, Barney--at least only spasmodically.” “You know I’d go to the end of the world to serve a friend--I would, honest! Yet I’ve no luck. Here is a poor devil of a musician I am trying to befriend. I can see he dislikes me intensely. I got a publisher to bring out some of his music--paid all the expenses--yet it was like pulling teeth to get that organist to allow me to help him, and he’s a genius if ever there was one. I got a select and appreciative audience together to hear him play. He didn’t come, although he promised to do so, and the people thought I was trying to make fools of them. It must be all my accursed manner. Now you always know the right thing to say: I don’t. My genius doesn’t run that way. I’m an artist.” Haldiman threw back his head and laughed. Barney stared at him, displeasure on his brow. “What the deuce are you laughing at now?” “Forgive me, Barney; I’m laughing at the thumping of your club foot, although you did not believe me capable of it.” “What have I said?” “Nothing--nothing. Barney, I love you! You are the one and only Barnard Hope; all others are base imitations. Now listen to me. I haven’t the faintest idea what it is you want. This conversation has been simply encyclopaedic in the amount of ground covered; but I’ll do for you what you would do for me, short of abduction or assassination. I’d prefer not to land myself in prison, if you don’t mind, but I’ll even run the risk of that. What do you want? Out with it!” “But the moment I begin, you’ll say your insulted. You terrorize me, Haldiman,--’pon my soul, you do!” “Go on. For ten minutes insults are barred. _Will_ you go on?” “Very well. I asked you how much you made in a year, and you jeered at me.”