nstrous!

The boy disappeared with the message.

I seized my opportunity of speaking to her. Don't ask me what I said!
Never before (or since) have I talked such utter nonsense, with such
intense earnestness of purpose and such immeasurable depth of feeling.
Do pray remember what you said yourself, the first time you had the
chance of opening your heart to _your_ young lady. The boy returned
before I had half done, and gave her back the odious document.

"Mr. Pickup's very sorry, miss. The answer is, No."

She lost all her lovely color, and sighed, and turned away. As she
pulled down her veil, I saw the tears in her eyes. Did that piteous
spectacle partially deprive me of my senses? I actually entreated her to
let me be of some use--as if I had been an old friend, with money enough
in my pocket to discount the note myself. She brought me back to my
senses with the utmost gentleness.

"I am afraid you forget, sir, that we are strangers. Good-morning."

I followed her to the door. I asked leave to call on her father, and
satisfy him about myself and my family connections. She only answered
that her father was too ill to see visitors. I went out with her on to
the landing. She turned on me sharply for the first time.

"You can see for yourself, sir, that I am in great distress. I appeal to
you, as a gentleman, to spare me."

If you still doubt whether I was really in love, let the facts speak for
themselves. I hung my head, and let her go.

When I returned alone to the picture-gallery--when I remembered that I
had not even had the wit to improve my opportunity by discovering her
name and address--I did really and seriously ask myself if these were
the first symptoms of softening of the brain. I got up, and sat down
again. I, the most audacious man of my age in London, had behaved like a
bashful boy! Once more I had lost her--and this time, also, I had nobody
but myself to blame for it.

These melancholy meditations were interrupted by the appearance of
my friend, the artist, in the picture-gallery. He approached me
confidentially, and spoke in a mysterious whisper.

"Pickup is suspicious," he said; "and I have had all the difficulty in
the world to pave your way smoothly for you at the outset. However,
if you can contrive to make a small Rembrandt, as a specimen, you may
consider yourself employed here until further notice. I am obliged to
particularize Rembrandt, because he is the only Old Master disengaged
a