altogether broke down. I remember his quoting a verse from Omar
Khayyam:--


"Yet ah! that spring should vanish with the rose,
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close,"


and breaking off in the middle with sudden tears.

It was necessary for me to adopt a profession, and I remember
envying him greatly when he told me that his father, who, I
gathered, rather idolised him, was quite content that he should
choose for himself at his leisure. He went abroad for a time; and I
met him next in London, where he was proposing to read for the bar;
but I discovered that he had really found his metier. He had
written a novel, which he showed me, and though it was in some ways
an immature performance, it had, I felt, high and unmistakable
literary qualities. It was published soon afterwards and met with
some success. He thereupon devoted himself to writing, and I was
astonished at his industry and eagerness. He had for the first time
found a congenial occupation. He lived mostly at home in those
days, but he was often in London, where he went a good deal into
society. I do not know very much about him at this time, but I
gather that he achieved something of a social reputation. He was
never a voluble talker; I do not suppose he ever set the table in a
roar, but he had a quiet, humorous and sympathetic manner. His
physical health was then, as always, perfect. He was never tired or
peevish; he was frank, kindly and companionable; he talked little
about himself, and had a genuine interest in the study of