revisited them. We were frankly silly about certain things. He and I had
some imaginary personages--Dr. Waddilove, supposed to be a rich beneficed
clergyman of Tory views; Mr. McTurk, a matter-of-fact Scotsman; Henry
Bland, a retired schoolmaster with copious stores of information; and
others--and we used often to discourse in character. But he always knew
when to stop. He would say to me suddenly: "Dr. Waddilove said to me
yesterday that he never argued with atheists or radicals, because they
always came round in the end." Or he would say, in Henry Bland's flute-like
tones: "Your mention of Robert Browning induces me to relate an anecdote,
which I think may prove not wholly uninteresting to you." At times we used
to tell long stories on our walks, stopping short in the middle of a
sentence, when the other had instantly to continue the narrative. I do not
mean that the wit was very choice or the humour at all remarkable--it would
not bear being written down--but it amused us both. "Come, what shall we do
to-day?" I can hear him say. "Dr. Waddilove and Mr. Bland might have a walk
and discuss the signs of the times?" And then the ridiculous dialogue would
begin.

That was the delightful thing about him, that he was always ready to fall
in with a mood, always light of touch and gay. He could be tender and
sympathetic, as well as incisive and sensible if it was needed; but he was
never either contradictory or severe or improving. He would sometimes pull
himself up and say: "Here, we must be business-like," but he was never
reproachful or grieved or shocked by what we said to him. He could be
decisive, stern, abrupt, if it was really needed. But his most pungent
reproofs were inflicted by a blank silence, which was one of the most
appalling things to encounter. He generally began to speak again a few
moments later, on a totally different subject, while any such sign of
displeasure was extremely rare. He never under any circumstances reminded
anyone of his generosity, or the trouble he had taken, or the favours he