little or nothing for the world's praise or blame.

Cellini had a pretty suite of rooms in the Hotel de L----, and my
friends Colonel and Mrs. Everard fraternized with him very warmly.
He was by no means slow to respond to their overtures of friendship,
and so it happened that his studio became a sort of lounge for us,
where we would meet to have tea, to chat, to look at the pictures,
or to discuss our plans for future enjoyment. These visits to
Cellini's studio, strange to say, had a remarkably soothing and
calming effect upon my suffering nerves. The lofty and elegant room,
furnished with that "admired disorder" and mixed luxuriousness
peculiar to artists, with its heavily drooping velvet curtains, its
glimpses of white marble busts and broken columns, its flash and
fragrance of flowers that bloomed in a tiny conservatory opening out
from the studio and leading to the garden, where a fountain bubbled
melodiously--all this pleased me and gave me a curious, yet most
welcome, sense of absolute rest. Cellini himself had a fascination
for me, for exactly the same reason. As an example of this, I
remember escaping from Mrs. Everard on one occasion, and hurrying to
the most secluded part of the garden, in order to walk up and down
alone in an endeavour to calm an attack of nervous agitation which
had suddenly seized me. While thus pacing about in feverish
restlessness, I saw Cellini approaching, his head bent as if in
thought, and his hands clasped behind his back. As he drew near me,
he raised his eyes--they were clear and darkly brilliant--he
regarded me steadfastly with a kindly smile. Then lifting his hat
with the graceful reverence peculiar to an Italian, he passed on,
saying no word. But the effect of his momentary presence upon me was
remarkable--it was ELECTRIC. I was no longer agitated. Calmed,
soothed and almost happy, I returned to Mrs. Everard, and entered