"No, no; I don't think she can accuse me of that." "Well then she'll come back to you if you take the right way with her." It might have been droll to hear the poor gentleman, in his situation, give his views on the right way with women; but Nick was not moved to enjoy that diversion. "I've taken the wrong way. I've done something that must spoil my prospects in that direction for ever. I've written a letter," the visitor went on; but his companion had already interrupted him. "You've written a letter?" "To my constituents, informing them of my determination to resign my seat." "To resign your seat?" "I've made up my mind, after no end of reflexion, dear Mr. Carteret, to work on quite other lines. I've a plan of becoming a painter. So I've given up the idea of a political life." "A painter?" Mr. Carteret seemed to turn whiter. "I'm going in for the portrait in oils. It sounds absurd, I know, and I'm thus specific only to show you I don't in the least expect you to count on me." The invalid had continued to stare at first; then his eyes slowly closed and he lay motionless and blank. "Don't let it trouble you now; it's a long story and rather a poor one; when you get better I'll tell you all about it. Well talk it over amicably and I'll bring you to my view," Nick went on hypocritically. He had laid his hand again on the hand beside him; it felt cold, and as the old man remained silent he had a moment of exaggerated fear. "This is dreadful news"--and Mr. Carteret opened his eyes. "Certainly it must seem so to you, for I've always kept from you--I was ashamed, and my present confusion is a just chastisement--the great interest I have always taken in the----!" But Nick broke down with a gasp, to add presently, with an intention of the pleasant and a sense of the foolish: "In the pencil and the brush." He spoke of his current confusion, though his manner might have been thought to show it but little. He was himself surprised at his brazen assurance and had to recognise that at the point things had come to now he was profoundly obstinate and quiet. "The pencil--the brush? They're not the weapons of a gentleman," Mr. Carteret pronounced. "I was sure that would be your feeling. I repeat that I mention them only because you once said you intended to do something for me, as the phrase is, and I thought you oughtn't to do it in ignorance." "My ignorance was better. Such knowledge isn't good for me." "Forgive me, my dear old friend," Nick kept it bravely up. "When you're better you'll see it differently." "I shall never be better now." "Ah no," Nick insisted; "it will really do you good after a little. Think it over quietly and you'll be glad I've stopped humbugging." "I loved you--I loved you as my son," the old man wailed. He sank on his knee beside the bed and leaned over him tenderly. "Get better, get better, and I'll be your son for the rest of your life." "Poor Dormer--poor Dormer!" Mr. Carteret continued to lament.