had conferred, while he would often remind one of some trifling kindness
done to him. "I often remember how good you were about those accounts, old
boy! I should never have got through without you!"

His demeanour was generally that of an indulgent uncle, with that
particular touch of nearness which in England is apt to exist only among
relations. He would consult us about his own private worries with entire
frankness, and this more than anything made us ready to confide in him. He
used to hand us cheques or money if required, with a little wink. "That's
your screw!" he used to say; and he liked any thanks that seemed natural.

"Natural,"--that is the word that comes before me all through. I can
remember no one so unembarrassed, so easy, so transparent. His thought
flowed into his talk; and his silences were not reticences, but the busy
silence of the child who has "a plan." He gave himself away without economy
and without disguise, and he accepted gratefully and simply whatever you
cared to give him of thought or love. I think oftenest of how I sometimes
went to see him in the evenings: if he was busy, as he often was, he used
just to murmur half to himself, "Well, old man?" indicate a chair, put his
finger on his lips, and go on with his work or his book; but at intervals
he would just glance at me with a little smile, and I knew that he was glad
to have me at hand in that simple companionship when there is no need of
speech or explanation. And then the book or paper would be dropped, and he
would say: "Well, out with it." If one said, "Nothing--only company," he
would give one of his best and sweetest smiles.



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