That parting bow of Swinburne to his old friend was characteristic of
his whole relation to him. Cronies though they were, these two, knit
together with bonds innumerable, the greater man was always aux petits
soins for the lesser, treating him as a newly-arrived young guest
might treat an elderly host. Some twenty years had passed since that
night when, ailing and broken--thought to be nearly dying, Watts-
Dunton told me--Swinburne was brought in a four-wheeler to The Pines.
Regular private nursing-homes either did not exist in those days or
were less in vogue than they are now. The Pines was to he a sort of
private nursing-home for Swinburne. It was a good one. He recovered.
He was most grateful to his friend and saviour. He made as though to
depart, was persuaded to stay a little longer, and then a little
longer than that. But I rather fancy that, to the last, he never did,
in the fullness of his modesty and good manners, consent to regard his
presence as a matter of course, or as anything but a terminable
intrusion and obligation. His bow seemed always to convey that.

Swinburne having gone from the room, in would come the parlourmaid.
The table was cleared, the fire was stirred, two leather arm-chairs
were pushed up to the hearth. Watts-Dunton wanted gossip of the
present. I wanted gossip of the great past. We settled down for a
long, comfortable afternoon together.

Only once was the ritual varied. Swinburne (I was told before
luncheon) had expressed a wish to show me his library. So after the
meal he did not bid us his usual adieu, but with much courtesy invited
us and led the way. Up the staircase he then literally bounded--three,
literally three, stairs at a time. I began to follow at the same rate,
but immediately slackened speed for fear that Watts-Dunton behind us
might be embittered at sight of so much youth and legerity. Swinburne