“Don’t let envy make things unpleasant for you, Mr. Tennant.”
“Nobody has shown me any envy,” said Tennant.
“I thought you said something about your friend Marlitt—”
“I never saw Marlitt; I only know his work.”
“Oh,” said Calvert, with a peculiar smile, “you only know his work!”
“That is all. Who is Marlitt?”
“The last of an old New York family; reduced circumstances, proud, incompetent, unsuccessful. Why does the artist who signs ‘Marlitt’ interest you?”
“This is why,” said Tennant, and drew a letter from his pocket. “Do you mind listening?”
“Go on,” said Calvert, with a wry face. And Tennant began:
“‘Dear Mr. Tennant,—Just a few words to express my keenest interest and delight in the work you are doing—not only the color work, but the pen-and-ink. You know that the public has made you their idol, but I thought you might care to know what the unsuccessful in your own profession think. You have already taught us so much; you are, week by week, raising the standard so high; and you are doing so much for me, that I venture to thank you and wish you still greater happiness and success. Marlitt.’”