"He would jump indeed; he would come straight down on top of me. And then the grotesqueness of it—to begin, all of a sudden, at my age."
"It's perfect indeed; it's a magnificent case," Nash went on.
"Think how it sounds—a paragraph in the London papers: 'Mr. Nicholas Dormer, M.P. for Harsh and son of the late Right Honourable, and so forth and so forth, is about to give up his seat and withdraw from public life in order to devote himself to the practice of portrait-painting. Orders respectfully solicited.'"
"The nineteenth century is better than I thought," said Nash. "It's the portrait that preoccupies you?"
"I wish you could see; you must come immediately to my place in London."
"You wretch, you're capable of having talent!" cried Nash.
"No, I'm too old, too old. It's too late to go through the mill."
"You make me young! Don't miss your election, at your peril. Think of the edification."
"The edification?"
"Of your throwing it all up the next moment."
"That would be pleasant for Mr. Carteret," Nick observed.
"Mr. Carteret?"
"A dear old fellow who will wish to pay my agent's bill."
"Serve him right, for such depraved tastes."
"You do me good," said Nick, getting up and turning away.
