He
said I had talked for effect and that talking for effect was
precisely what one must never do; he had always hated rhetoric and
emphasis and had made me hate it; and his anger plunged me into
great dejection. I called at Nettleship's studio the next day to
apologise and Nettleship opened the door himself and received me
with enthusiasm. He had explained to some woman guest that I would
probably talk well, being an Irishman, but the reality had
surpassed, etc., etc. I was not flattered, though relieved at not
having to apologise, for I soon discovered that what he really
admired was my volubility, for he himself was very silent. He
seemed about sixty, had a bald head, a grey beard, and a nose, as
one of my father's friends used to say, like an opera glass, and
sipped cocoa all the afternoon and evening from an enormous tea
cup that must have been designed for him alone, not caring how
cold the cocoa grew. Years before he had been thrown from his
horse while hunting and broken his arm and, because it had been
badly set, suffered great pain for along time.
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