belief that I could do that sort of thing every time, and it
ought not to be expected of me. Suppose Raphael's patrons had
tried to keep him screwed up to the pitch of the Sistine Madonna,
and had refused to buy anything which was not as good as that.
In that case I think he would have occupied a much earlier and
narrower grave than the one on which Mr. Morris Moore hangs his
funeral decorations."

"But, my dear," said Hypatia, who was posted on such
subjects, "the Sistine Madonna was one of his latest paintings."

"Very true," said I. "But if he had married as I did, he
would have painted it earlier."

I was walking homeward one afternoon about this time, when I
met Barbel, a man I had known well in my early literary career.
He was now about fifty years of age, but looked older. His hair
and beard were quite gray, and his clothes, which were of the
same general hue, gave me the idea that they, like his hair, had
originally been black. Age is very hard on a man's external
appointments. Barbel had an air of having been to let for a long
time, and quite out of repair. But there was a kindly gleam in
his eye, and he welcomed me cordially.

"Why, what is the matter, old fellow?" said he. "I never saw
you look so woe-begone."

I had no reason to conceal anything from Barbel. In my
younger days he had been of great use to me, and he had a right
to know the state of my affairs. I laid the whole case plainly