"That's what I like him for; he thinks the more."
"How is one to know it?"
"Just look at him! talk your best,—parade your poetry, your criticism, your epigrams, your puns, if you have any, and then look at him! By Jove! I don't want a better talker. I know it's in him, and I don't care whether he opens his mouth or not."
CHAPTER II.
SHOWING HOW MUCH IT SOMETIMES COSTS TO BE THOUGHT CHARITABLE.
Mr. Sandford was a bachelor, and resided in a pleasant street at the West End,—his sister being housekeeper. His house was simply furnished,—yet the good taste apparent in the arrangement of the furniture gave the rooms an air of neatness, if not of elegance. There were not so many pictures as might be expected in the dwelling of a lover of Art, and in many cases the frames were more noticeable than the canvas; for upon most of them were plates informing the visitor that they were presented to Henry Sandford for his disinterested services as treasurer, director, or chairman of the Society for the Relief of Infirm Wood-sawyers, or some other equally benevolent association. The silver pitcher and salver, always visible upon a table, were a testimonial from the managers of a fair for the aid of Indigent Widows. A massive silver inkstand bore witness to the gratitude of the Society of Merchants' Clerks. And numerous Votes of Thanks, handsomely engrossed on parchment, with eminent names appended, and preserved in gilt frames, filled all the available space upon the walls. It was evident that this was the residence of a Benefactor of Mankind.
It was just after breakfast, and Mr. Sandford was preparing to go out. His full and handsome face was serene as usual, and a general air of neatness pervaded his dress. He was, in fact, unexceptionable in appearance, wearing the look that gets credit in State Street, gives respectability to a public platform, and seems to bring a blessing into the abodes of poverty. Nothing but broad and liberal views, generous sentiments, and a noble self-forgetfulness would seem to belong to a man with such a presence. But his sister Marcia, this morning, seemed far from being pleased with his plans; her tones were querulous, and even severe.
"Now, Henry," she exclaimed, "you are not going to sell that picture. We've had enough changes. Every auction a new purchase, which you immediately fling away."
"You are a very warm-hearted young woman," replied the brother, "and you doubtless imagine that I am able with my limited resources to buy a picture from every new painter, besides answering the numberless calls made upon me from every quarter."
"Why did you bid for the picture, then?"