He threw fits of gratitude. His family were theatrically commanded
to regard me well, so that my countenance might be forever
imprinted on their hearts; and they, poor devils, in a seventh
heaven to have him back safe and sound in their midst, regarded
and regarded, and imprinted and imprinted, till I felt like a
perfect ass masquerading as a Hobson.
It was all I could do to tear myself away. Grossensteck clung to
me. Mrs. Grossensteck clung to me. Teresa--that was the daughter--
Teresa, too, clung to me. I had to give my address. I had to take
theirs. Medals were spoken of; gold watches with inscriptions; a
common purse, on which I was requested to confer the favour of
drawing for the term of my natural life. I departed in a blaze of
glory, and though I could not but see the ridiculous side of the
affair (I mean as far as I was concerned), I was moved by so
affecting a family scene, and glad, indeed, to think that the old
fellow had been spared to his wife and daughter. I had even a pang
of envy, for I could not but contrast myself with Grossensteck,
and wondered if there were two human beings in the world who would
have cared a snap whether I lived or died. Of course, that was
just a passing mood, for, as a matter of fact, I am a man with
many friends, and I knew some would feel rather miserable were I
to make a hole in saltwater. But, you see, I had just had a story
refused by Schoonmaker's Magazine, a good story, too, and that
always gives me a sinking feeling--to think that after all these
years I am still on the borderland of failure, and can never be
sure of acceptance, even by the second-class periodicals for which
I write.
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