party, she instantly left the room by another door and then
straightway quitted the house. At another time when I was at the
opera with them--Mrs. Milsom had invited me to their box--I
attempted to point Mr. Paraday out to her in the stalls. On this
she asked her sister to change places with her and, while that lady
devoured the great man through a powerful glass, presented, all the
rest of the evening, her inspired back to the house. To torment
her tenderly I pressed the glass upon her, telling her how
wonderfully near it brought our friend's handsome head. By way of
answer she simply looked at me in charged silence, letting me see
that tears had gathered in her eyes. These tears, I may remark,
produced an effect on me of which the end is not yet. There was a
moment when I felt it my duty to mention them to Neil Paraday, but
I was deterred by the reflexion that there were questions more
relevant to his happiness.

These question indeed, by the end of the season, were reduced to a
single one--the question of reconstituting so far as might be
possible the conditions under which he had produced his best work.
Such conditions could never all come back, for there was a new one
that took up too much place; but some perhaps were not beyond
recall. I wanted above all things to see him sit down to the
subject he had, on my making his acquaintance, read me that
admirable sketch of. Something told me there was no security but
in his doing so before the new factor, as we used to say at Mr.
Pinhorn's, should render the problem incalculable. It only half-
reassured me that the sketch itself was so copious and so eloquent
that even at the worst there would be the making of a small but
complete book, a tiny volume which, for the faithful, might well
become an object of adoration. There would even not be wanting