last, with a heavy sigh, he turned away and our eyes met. As he
recognised me a deep blush rose to his face; he fancied, perhaps, that he
had made a fool of himself overnight. But I offered him my hand with a
friendliness which assured him I was not a scoffer. I knew him by his
ardent _chevelure_; otherwise he was much altered. His midnight mood was
over, and he looked as haggard as an actor by daylight. He was far older
than I had supposed, and he had less bravery of costume and gesture. He
seemed the quiet, poor, patient artist he had proclaimed himself, and the
fact that he had never sold a picture was more obvious than glorious. His
velvet coat was threadbare, and his short slouched hat, of an antique
pattern, revealed a rustiness which marked it an "original," and not one
of the picturesque reproductions which brethren of his craft affect. His
eye was mild and heavy, and his expression singularly gentle and
acquiescent; the more so for a certain pallid leanness of visage, which I
hardly knew whether to refer to the consuming fire of genius or to a
meagre diet. A very little talk, however, cleared his brow and brought
back his eloquence.

"And this is your first visit to these enchanted halls?" he cried.
"Happy, thrice happy youth!" And taking me by the arm, he prepared to
lead me to each of the pre-eminent works in turn and show me the cream of
the gallery. But before we left the Mantegna he pressed my arm and gave
it a loving look. "_He_ was not in a hurry," he murmured. "He knew
nothing of 'raw Haste, half-sister to Delay!'" How sound a critic my
friend was I am unable to say, but he was an extremely amusing one;
overflowing with opinions, theories, and sympathies, with disquisition
and gossip and anecdote. He was a shade too sentimental for my own
sympathies, and I fancied he was rather too fond of superfine
discriminations and of discovering subtle intentions in shallow places.
At moments, too, he plunged into the sea of metaphysics, and floundered a