Should my wanderings lead me to the East,
he hopes that no false embarrassment will deter me from presenting myself
at Smyrna. He can promise me at least a friendly reception. It's a very
polite letter."
Polite as the letter was, Pickering seemed to find no great exhilaration
in having this famous burden so handsomely lifted from his spirit. He
began to brood over his liberation in a manner which you might have
deemed proper to a renewed sense of bondage. "Bad news," he had called
his letter originally; and yet, now that its contents proved to be in
flat contradiction to his foreboding, there was no impulsive voice to
reverse the formula and declare the news was good. The wings of impulse
in the poor fellow had of late been terribly clipped. It was an obvious
reflection, of course, that if he had not been so stiffly certain of the
matter a month before, and had gone through the form of breaking Mr.
Vernor's seal, he might have escaped the purgatory of Madame Blumenthal's
sub-acid blandishments. But I left him to moralise in private; I had no
desire, as the phrase is, to rub it in. My thoughts, moreover, were
following another train; I was saying to myself that if to those gentle
graces of which her young visage had offered to my fancy the blooming
promise, Miss Vernor added in this striking measure the capacity for
magnanimous action, the amendment to my friend's career had been less
happy than the rough draught.
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