I felt myself pulled away by the arm, and Mr. Click and I stood alone at the corner of the next crossing.
“Why, Tom,” said Mr. Click, “what a horrid expression of face you’ve got!”
“Have I?” says I.
“Have you?” says Mr. Click. “Why, you looked as if you would have his blood.”
“Whose blood?”
“The artist’s.”
“The artist’s?” I repeated. And I laughed, frantically, wildly, gloomily, incoherently, disagreeably. I am sensible that I did. I know I did.
Mr. Click stared at me in a scared sort of a way, but said nothing until we had walked a street’s length. He then stopped short, and said, with excitement on the part of his forefinger:
“Thomas, I find it necessary to be plain with you. I don’t like the envious man. I have identified the cankerworm that’s pegging away at your vitals, and it’s envy, Thomas.”
“Is it?” says I.