filing trail of 'society' dressed people that represents my memory of it all, and for a certain lifeless wanness that I seem to find in even these conversations between Mr. Brooke and myself, although written so shortly after they were spoken. But as the days wore on, I with a little astonishment found that I was again beginning to take an interest in my work. At first, as I have said, this astonished me, and I half anticipated that 'it would go off soon.' But, when it did not, but rather grew, till it seemed to have achieved some permanent strength, I was led to look upon my early discontent as the momentary humour and this calmer readiness as the actual individuality. Something too of my old adventurous love was rising in me at the near approach of our departure, and this helped me to realise that, past denial, there was much in me that was morbid and self-concentrated, and helped me to determine to resist these infirmities. I had begun to like Mr. Brooke better, and this, although I was far from holding him up to myself as 'the ideal friend,' as I had done at starting. No one could help liking the man's earnestness: an earnestness that had something of the tenderness-inspiring in it. It did not matter that the aim of this earnestness was not altogether apparent to you. You saw the effect: the effect was beautiful, earnestness and honesty welded together, and you 'liked' it. What matter about the cause?
It was in a hiunour of this sort that, some days later, I sat with him after dinner in the library, he smoking a cigar, I thinking about things.
We sat in silence.
At last, with a slight yawn:
'We shall be off,' he said, 'before this time next week. Oh-h-h!… How delightful it is to think of it!'
'Mr. Clarkson is to meet us at Brindisi, isn't he!' I said.
'Yes. He does not want to go through Paris, and it would scarcely do to go through the Continent and he not go with us. I do not think so, at least.… He has a perfect monomania about Paris. He caught typhoid fever when he was there three years ago, and
