tion; you can't think how it's refined and purified me, how it's appealed to my spiritual nature; and I want to tell you that I would die at your door like a dog.”
I don't know what answer I tried to make, but he cut me short.
“Let me say it out!” he cried. “I revere you for your whole-souled devotion to art; I can't rise to it, but there's a strain of poetry in my nature, Loudon, that responds to it. I want you to carry it out, and I mean to help you.”
“Pinkerton, what nonsense is this?” I interrupted.
“Now don't get mad, Loudon; this is a plain piece of business,” said he; “it's done every day; it's even typical. How are all those fellows over here in Paris, Henderson, Sumner, Long?—it's all the same story: a young man just plum full of artistic genius on the one side, a man of business on the other who doesn't know what to do with his dollars”
“But, you fool, you're as poor as a rat,” I cried.
“You wait till I get my irons in the fire!” returned Pinkerton. “I'm bound to be rich; and I tell you I mean to have some of the fun as I go along. Here's your first allowance; take it at the hand of a friend; I'm one that holds friendship sacred as you do yourself. It's only a hundred francs; you'll get the same every month, and as soon as my business begins to expand we'll increase it to something fitting. And so far from it's being a favour, just let me handle your statuary for the American market, and I'll call it one of the smartest strokes of business in my life.”
It took me a long time, and it had cost us both much grateful and painful emotion, before I had finally managed to refuse his offer and compounded for a bottle of particular wine. He dropped the subject at last suddenly with a “Never mind; that's all done with”; nor did he again refer to the subject, though we passed together the rest of the afternoon, and I accompanied him, on his departure; to the doors
