A little while after, Gladwin said he thought he would go to his room. "I know your ways here," he said to me with a smile; "one mustn't interfere with a system. Besides I like it! It is such a luxury to obliterate oneself!" When we met again before dinner, Gladwin walked across to a big picture, an old sea-piece, rather effectively painted, which Father Payne had found in a garret, and had had restored and framed. "What is this?" said Gladwin very gently; "I think this is new?" Father Payne told him the story of its discovery, adding, "I don't suppose it is worth much--but it has a certain breeziness about it, I think." Gladwin considered it in silence, and then turned away. "Do you like it?" said Father Payne--a little maliciously, I thought. "Like it?" said Gladwin meditatively, "I don't know that I can go as far as that! I like it in your house." Gladwin said very little at dinner. He ate and drank sparingly; and I noticed that he looked at any dish that was offered him with a quick scrutinising glance. He tasted his first glass of wine with the same air of suspense, and then appeared to be relieved from a preoccupation. But he joined little in the talk, and exercised rather a sobering effect upon us. Once or twice he spoke out. Mention was made of Gissing's _Papers of Henry Ryecroft_, and Father Payne asked him if he had read it. "Oh no, I couldn't _read_ it, of course," said Gladwin; "I looked into it, and had to put it away. I felt as if I had opened a letter addressed to someone else by mistake!"