Mr.
Patching's individuality lay chiefly in his hat.
The artist placed a moist hand, with one long finger nail like a claw,
at the disposal of Marcus Wilkeson. The latter gentleman shook the
member feebly, and distinctly felt the sharp edge of the long finger
nail in his palm. It was an unpleasant sensation.
"Happy to meet a _confidential_ friend of Tiffles's," said Patching.
"Painting panoramas is not exactly what I have been used to. An artist's
reputation is his capital in trade, you know." He spoke slowly and
languidly, as if hope and happiness were quite dead within him, and he
had consented to live on only for the good of high Art.
"I understand," said Marcus. "The secret shall be inviolate."
"Nothing but my old friendship for Tiffles here could possibly have
induced me to undertake the job. My enemies--and I have them, ha! ha!"
(he said this bitterly)--"would like nothing better to say of Patching,
than that he had got down to the panorama line of business. It would be
a pretty piece of scandal."
"My lips are sealed, sir. But it strikes me, as a casual observer, that
there is nothing to be ashamed of in this beautiful work of art.
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