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a contemptuous kind of friendship. By this time, which was four years
after the first meeting, Pitman was the lawyer's dog.
'No,' said the elderly housekeeper, who opened the door in person, 'Mr
Michael's not in yet. But ye're looking terribly poorly, Mr Pitman. Take
a glass of sherry, sir, to cheer ye up.'
'No, I thank you, ma'am,' replied the artist. 'It is very good in you,
but I scarcely feel in sufficient spirits for sherry. Just give Mr
Finsbury this note, and ask him to look round--to the door in the lane,
you will please tell him; I shall be in the studio all evening.'
And he turned again into the street and walked slowly homeward. A
hairdresser's window caught his attention, and he stared long and
earnestly at the proud, high--born, waxen lady in evening dress, who
circulated in the centre of the show. The artist woke in him, in spite
of his troubles.
'It is all very well to run down the men who make these things,'
he cried, 'but there's a something--there's a haughty, indefinable
something about that figure. It's what I tried for in my "Empress
Eugenie",' he added, with a sigh.
And he went home reflecting on the quality. 'They don't teach you that
direct appeal in Paris,' he thought. 'It's British. Come, I am going to
sleep, I must wake up, I must aim higher--aim higher,' cried the little
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