"Why, it's too bad!" the girl exclaimed, with the face of an angel.
I followed up my advantage. "There's a lady with him now who's a terrible complication, and who yet hasn't read, I am sure, ten pages that he ever wrote."
My visitor's wide eyes grew tenderer. "Then how does she talk?"
"Without ceasing. I only mention her as a single case. Do you want to know how to show a superlative consideration? Simply avoid him."
"Avoid him?" she softly wailed.
"Don't force him to have to take account of you; admire him in silence, cultivate him at a distance and secretly appropriate his message. Do you want to know," I continued, warming to my idea, "how to perform an act of homage really sublime?" Then as she hung on my words: "Succeed in never seeing him!"
"Never?" she pathetically gasped.
"The more you get into his writings the less you'll want to; and you'll be immensely sustained by the thought of the good you're doing him."
She looked at me without resentment or spite, and at the truth I had put before her with candour, credulity and pity. I was afterwards happy to remember that she must have recognised in my face the liveliness of my interest in herself. "I think I see what you mean."
"Oh, I express it badly; but I should be delighted if you would let me come to see you to explain it better."
She made no response to this, and her thoughtful eyes fell on the big album, on which she presently laid her hands as if to take it away. "I did use to say out West that they might write a littleless
