I may add, of the most fastidiously veracious. In a little discussion, two or three days ago, with Theodore, I came to the point and roundly proclaimed that in gossiping with Mr. Sloane I made no scruple, for our common satisfaction, of discreetly using the embellishments of fiction. My confession gave him "that turn," as Mrs. Gamp would say, that his present illness may be the result of it. Nevertheless, poor, dear fellow, I trust he'll be on his legs tomorrow. This afternoon, somehow, I found myself really in the humor of talking. There was something propitious in the circumstances; a hard, cold rain without, a wood-fire in the library, the bonhomme puffing cigarettes in his armchair, beside him a portfolio of newly imported prints and photographs, and Theodore tucked safely away in bed. Finally, when I brought our tête-à-tête to a close (taking good care to understay my welcome) Mr. Sloane seized me by both hands and honored me with one of his venerable grins. "Max," he said—"you must let me call you Max—you're the most delightful man I ever knew."
Verily, there's some virtue left in me yet. I believe I fairly blushed.
"Why didn't I know you ten years ago?" the old man went on. "Here are ten years lost."
"Ten years ago, my dear Mr. Sloane," quoth Max, "I was hardly worth your knowing."
