apart the two or three hours of solitude, of reading and meditation, which the intellect requires for its nourishment, continuing to learn with the enthusiasm of a student who is prolonging the life of the school and university until events compel him to make a choice among the paths which he has opened up for himself.
His father, to whom he was bound by ties of the liveliest affection, was puzzled:
“After all, Simon, what are you aiming at? What’s your object?’’
“I am training.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. But an hour strikes for each of us when we must be fully prepared, well equipped, with our ideas in good order and our muscles absolutely fit. I shall be ready.’’
And so he reached his thirtieth year. It was at the beginning of that year, at Nice, through Edward Rolleston, that he made Miss Bakefield’s acquaintance.
‘‘I am sure to see your father at Dieppe,’’ said Rolleston. ‘‘He will be surprised that you haven’t returned with me, as we arranged last month. What shall I say to him?’’
“Say that I’m stopping here a little
