“You see,” said John White, with characteristic modesty, “you see I never thought of achieving a first rank. My books take well and I make money—thank heaven. But this fellow in the newspaper absolutely says that I am possessed of genius!”
“And haven’t I always said it?” asked Tony, with an offended air; “haven’t we all always said it?”
“Yes; but you are friends, don’t you know?”
“Not a bit. Do I ever tell Jones that he has genius? Do I ever tell Sandford that he has genius—although he is a Fellow of Merton? Did I ever tell Barlow that his works would set the Thames on fire? Never! Friendship in my case never interferes with strict impartiality.”
This pleased Mr. White. He absolutely blushed with pleasure. A kind word from Lomax was more real satisfaction to him than a page of praise from the Sultry Review—which is not, perhaps, rating the eulogy of Mr. Lomax very highly.
“And are they right about the—the want of backbone?” he inquired, nervously, “and the necessity to study character from the life?”
“As right as nine-pence, my boy. Doctors analyse dead bodies, and pull live ones about. Artists draw, I am told, from the nude. Actors imitate particular individuals. Yes, I think the Times rascal is absolutely right.”
“Then I shall commence and study from the life at once. But where now,” he asked plaintively, “where would you advise me to commence? You don’t know of any very likely place for the acquirement of the backbone?”
“Well, my boy, there’s Breeks and Woolfer; if you’ll step over to the Vice-Chancellor’s Court—it’s quite full of character.”
But the novelist only shuddered at the mention of the case, and saying gently that he thought he would take his own course, bade his friend “Good-bye,” and departed much disturbed in his mind at the magnitude and amount of the task the censor of Printing-house Square had set for him.