What a fool, then, was I, to be lamenting! when I had at last, and for once, and at the cost of only a few blushes, paid back a fraction of my debt of gratitude.

So that, when I next met Pinkerton, I took things very lightly; my father was pleased, and thought the letter very clever, I told him; for my own part, I had no taste for publicity: thought the public had no concern with the artist, only with his art; and though I owned he had handled it with great consideration, I should take it as a favour if he never did it again.
"There it is," he said despondingly.

"I've hurt you.

You can't deceive me, Loudon.

It's the want of tact, and it's incurable." He sat down, and leaned his head upon his hand.