last night, but found I was asleep and wouldn't have me woke. But he left a note for me.
I got it and opened it at once:
'Good-bye, my dear fellow! I am sorry our conversation was interrupted, or rather, I should say my monologue: your part of it would have come in later p'r'aps! Write to me at 21 Norfolk Square, London, whenever you care to. I shall always be glad to hear from you. Indeed I do hope we shan't lose sight of one another altogether. At present my plans are vague in the extreme. I'll write again soon. I'm afraid I must have seemed rather a fool to you an hour ago? at any rate, very confused and peculiar? I was stirred, you see. I feel strongly about those things. And believe me, my dear fellow, those things are the only things in the world worth feeling strongly about. You'll think so too some day.—But I must dry up now. Excuse paper, also almost illegible pencil, also this final scribble into a corner. And believe me that I am now, as always, truly yours,
'P.S.—Don't be a porcupine!'
IV
Early in the next term I received another letter from Clayton. There wasn't much in it, I thought. 'He was really about to leave old England, going to learn his occupation in life, where every man should learn it—under fire, and in the smoke of the battle.'
I put the letter into my pocket, intending to answer it that evening at preparation: indeed, did begin upon it, but, after the first seven lines or so, tore the sheet up and went on with my work. I didn't care about the fellow enough to write to him any of my thoughts, and, if I couldn't write them, I didn't want to write anything.
I believe he said or wrote things about me to one or two of his friends, especially Scott. For Scott is every now and then polite to me, when the chance occurs, as Clayton himself used to be; but that sort of politeness has no relish.
That midsummer term I remember well enough—by its dreariness. Dull skies and rain, and our wretched
