a little lower. Nick sat down by him and began to express the hope that he had not upset him in the morning; but the old man, with fixed, expanded eyes, took up their conversation exactly where they had left it.
"What have you done—what have you done? Have you associated yourself with some other woman?"
"No, no; I don't think she can accuse me of that."
"Well, then, she'll come back to you, if you take the right way with her."
It might have been droll to hear Mr. Carteret, in his situation, giving his views on the right way with women; but Nick was not moved to enjoy that diversion. "I've taken the wrong way. I've done something which will spoil my prospects in that direction for ever. I've written a letter," Nick went on; but his companion had already interrupted him.
"You've written a letter?"
"To my constituents, informing them of my determination to resign my seat."
"To resign your seat?"
"I've made up my mind, after no end of reflection, dear Mr. Carteret, to work in a different line. I have a project of becoming a painter. So I've given up the idea of a political life."
"A painter?" Mr. Carteret seemed to turn whiter.
"I'm going in for the portrait in oils: it sounds absurd, I know, and I only mention it to show you that I don't in the least expect you to count upon me." Mr. Carteret had continued to stare, at first; then his eyes slowly closed and
