“Disown it, if you please,” said Mr. Leavenworth sternly, “but finish it first!”
“I ‘d rather smash it!” cried Roderick.
“This is folly, sir. You must keep your engagements.”
“I made no engagement. A sculptor is n’t a tailor. Did you ever hear of inspiration? Mine is dead! And it ‘s no laughing matter. You yourself killed it.”
“I—I—killed your inspiration?” cried Mr. Leavenworth, with the accent of righteous wrath. “You ‘re a very ungrateful boy! If ever I encouraged and cheered and sustained any one, I ‘m sure I have done so to you.”
“I appreciate your good intentions, and I don’t wish to be uncivil. But your encouragement is—superfluous. I can’t work for you!”
“I call this ill-humor, young man!” said Mr. Leavenworth, as if he had found the damning word.
“Oh, I ‘m in an infernal humor!” Roderick answered.
“Pray, sir, is it my infelicitous allusion to Miss Light’s marriage?”
“It ‘s your infelicitous everything! I don’t say that to offend you; I beg your pardon if it does. I say it by way of making our rupture complete, irretrievable!”