"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.

"Yes, it is," says be. "Thomas, beware of envy. It is the green-eyed
monster which never did and never will improve each shining hour, but
quite the reverse. I dread the envious man, Thomas. I confess that I am
afraid of the envious man, when he is so envious as you are. Whilst you
contemplated the works of a gifted rival, and whilst you heard that
rival's praises, and especially whilst you met his humble glance as he