because we knew she was dying of consumption.

* * * * *

In Paris I was probably absorbed in some work I had in hand and must
have neglected du Maurier, for he writes urging me to answer by return
of post and give an account of myself. He had been visited, he says,
by an alarming nightmare, which he forthwith sketches for my benefit.
Carry, the Circe, had captured the lion. The noble beast--that was
me--had succumbed to the wiles of the enchantress, and submitted
tamely to being combed and brushed and to having his claws clipped
by her hand. Like birds of a feather, so do lions of a name,
flock together. And so another noble beast--that was he--is seen
approaching, presumably to claim his share of the combing and clipping
and of whatever other favours may be forthcoming.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Another time when, I suppose, I was again letting him wait for an
answer, he writes from Düsseldorf: "DEAR BOBTAIL,--Est-ce que tu
te donnes le genre de m'oublier par hazard? I have been expecting a
letter from you every day, running thus: 'DEAR RAG,--Come to Paris
_immediately_, to illustrate thirty-six periodical papers which I have
got for you. In haste, Bobtail.' My old pal, Tom Armstrong, is here,
working hard; eyes the same as ever. Write soon and tell all about
that portrait. Düsseldorf rencontre was jolly." The letter is headed
by a drawing representing me soaring heavenwards, whilst he, chained
to the spot, is philosophically consulting the cards on his prospects