of his work, phrases of Joubert or of Stendhal seemed to be still
floating about him, and certain subtleties of artistic and critical
speculation were still vaguely arguing themselves out within him as he
sped westward, drawing in the pleasant influences of the spring sunshine,
and delighting his eyes in the May green which was triumphing more and
more every day over the grayness of London, and would soon have reached
that lovely short-lived pause of victory which is all that summer can
hope to win amid the dust and crowd of a great city.

Kendal was in that condition which is proper to men possessed of the true
literary temperament, when the first fervour of youth for mere living is
gone, when the first crude difficulties of accumulation are over, and
when the mind, admitted to regions of an ampler ether and diviner air
than any she has inhabited before, feels the full charm and spell of
man's vast birthright of knowledge, and is seized with subtler
curiosities and further-reaching desires than anything she has yet been
conscious of. The world of fact and of idea is open, and the explorer's
instruments are as perfect as they can be made. The intoxication of
entrance is full upon him, and the lassitude which is the inevitable
Nemesis of an unending task, and the chill which sooner or later descends
upon every human hope, are as yet mere names and shadows, counting for
nothing in the tranquil vista of his life, which seems to lie spread out
before him. It is a rare state, for not many men are capable of the
apprenticeship which leads to it, and a breath of hostile circumstance
may put an end to it; but in its own manner and degree, and while it
lasts, it is one of the golden states of consciousness, and a man
enjoying it feels this mysterious gift of existence to have been a kindly
boon from some beneficent power.

Arrived at Mrs. Stuart's, Kendal found a large gathering already filling