he boat.

"This is fame," muttered Patching, glancing at his scrutinizers from the
shadow of the far-reaching hat. "This is what people starve and die for.
It is a bore." He struck an attitude, as if unconsciously, folding his
arms, and appearing to be in a profound revery. Then, after another
cautious glance about, he turned to Tiffles, by his side, and said:

"It is useless. I am recognized. But remember your solemn promise. I had
no hand in the painting of it."

"Not a little finger, my dear fellow," cheerfully replied Tiffles, who
had given the artist similar assurances of secrecy five times
that morning.

At that moment a hand touched Tiffles familiarly on the shoulder. He
turned suddenly, for he was always expecting rear attacks from
creditors. He saw Marcus Wilkeson.

"Best of friends," said Tiffles, with unfeigned joy, "I am glad to see
you. Of course you are going with us, though I hardly dared hope as much
when I sent you the invitation."

"To tell the truth, Tiffles, I had no intention of going, till this
morning, when it suddenly occurred to me that a little trip in the
country, and the fun of seeing your panorama and hearing you lecture,
would drive away the blues. I had a bad fit of them last night."

Here Patching turned, and looked Marcus in the face, without seeming to
recognize him. It was his habit (not a singular one among the human
species) to pretend not to remember people, and to wait for the first
word. Marcus indulged in the same habit to some extent, and, when he saw
Patching looking at him without a nod or a word, he also was blank and
speechless.

"Don't you remember each other?" said Tiffles. "Mr. Patching. Mr. Marcus
Wilkeson."

The gentlemen shook hands, and said:

"Oh, yes! How do you do? It is a fine morning. Very."

"So much paler than when I last saw you, that I didn't know you,
positively. Little ill, sir?" asked Patching. The artist was sure to
observe and speak of any signs of illness on the faces of his friends
and acquaintances. Some people called him malevolent for it.

To be told that one looks pale, always makes one turn paler. Marcus,
extra sensitive on the point of looks, became quite pallid, and said,
with confusion:

"I have not been well for several days, and my rest was badly broken
last night."

Tiffles had also remarked the unusual deadly whiteness of his friend's
complexion, and the air of lassitude and unhappiness which pervaded his
face, but he wou