On the last day, he had me to dinner at a restaurant which he knew I had formerly frequented, and had only forsworn of late from considerations of economy.

He seemed ill at ease; I was myself both sorry and sulky; and the meal passed with little conversation.
"Now, Loudon," said he, with a visible effort, after the coffee was come and our pipes lighted, "you can never understand the gratitude and loyalty I bear you.

You don't know what a boon it is to be taken up by a man that stands on the pinnacle of civilization; you can't think how it's refined and purified me, how it's appealed to my spiritual nature; and I want to tell you that I would die at your door like a dog." I don't know what answer I tried to make, but he cut me short.
"Let me say it out!" he cried.

"I revere you for your whole-souled devotion to art; I can't rise to it, but there's a strain of poetry in my nature, Loudon, that responds to it.

I want you to carry it out, and I mean to help you." "Pinkerton, what nonsense is this ?" I interrupted.
"Now don't get mad, Loudon; this is a plain piece of business," said he; "it's done every day; it's even typical.