understood what he saw and knew what he was doing. This is my sole
ground for mentioning my winter in Italy. He had been there much in
former years--he was saturated with what painters call the "feeling"
of that classic land. He expressed the charm of the old hill-cities
of Tuscany, the look of certain lonely grass-grown places which, in
the past, had echoed with life; he understood the great artists, he
understood the spirit of the Renaissance; he understood everything.
The scene of one of his earlier novels was laid in Rome, the scene of
another in Florence, and I had moved through these cities in company
with the figures he set so firmly on their feet. This is why I was
now so much happier even than before in the prospect of making his
acquaintance.

At last, when I had dallied with my privilege long enough, I
despatched to him the missive of the American poet. He had already
gone out of town; he shrank from the rigour of the London "season"
and it was his habit to migrate on the first of June. Moreover I
had heard he was this year hard at work on a new book, into which
some of his impressions of the East were to be wrought, so that he
desired nothing so much as quiet days. That knowledge, however,
didn't prevent me--cet age est sans pitie--from sending with my
friend's letter a note of my own, in which I asked his leave to come
down and see him for an hour or two on some day to be named by
himself. My proposal was accompanied with a very frank expression
of my sentiments, and the effect of the entire appeal was to elicit
from the great man the kindest possible invitation. He would be
delighted to see me, especially if I should turn up on the following
Saturday and would remain till the Monday morning. We would take a
walk over the Surrey commons, and I could tell him all about the
other great man, the one in America. He indicated to me the best