it, and said he had never been there. I discovered that he hardly ever
left his own little domain, but took all his exercise in gardening or
working with his hands. He had a regular workroom at one time in the
house, where he carved, painted, or stitched tapestries--but it was all
intent work. When he came to Cambridge for a day, he would collect
books from all parts of the house, read them furiously, "tearing the
heart out of them" like Dr. Johnson. Everything was done thus, at top
speed. His correspondence was enormous; he seldom failed to acknowledge
a letter, and if his advice were asked he would write at great length,
quite ungrudgingly; but his constant writing told on his script. Ten
years ago it was a very distinctive, artistic, finely formed hand, very
much like my father's, but latterly it grew cramped and even illegible,
though it always had a peculiar character, and, as is often the case
with very marked hand-writings, it tended to be unconsciously imitated
by his friends.

[Illustration: _Copyright, C. Chichester_

HARE STREET, IN THE GARDEN

JULY 1911

R. H. Benson. Dr. F. L. Sessions.]

I used to wonder, in talk with him, how he found it possible to stay
about so much in all sorts of houses, and see so many strange people.
"Oh, one gets used to it," he said, adding: "besides, I am quite
shameless now--I say that I must have a room to myself where I can work
and smoke, and people are very good about that."