Late in the evening we sat together. He was so silent that I looked at him to see if he had fallen asleep. The room we were sitting in――the morning-room――gave on to a garden at the side of the house, into which one could easily pass through tall French windows. The night was warm, and one of these windows stood wide open, letting in the scent of flowers, but with a curtain drawn across it to keep out moths and other winged creatures attracted by lamplight. I did not speak, but waited for him to talk or to keep silent as he chose. After a while I got up to examine a few black-framed etchings that hung upon the walls. These, with some pieces of china, formed the only decorations. I drew back the curtain and looked out into the night. The moon was high above the trees, and I could hear the low sound of waves breaking on the shore. When I turned round he was watching me, and I was struck by his expression, which was that of a man on the point of making some very private communication. But perhaps my sudden movement disconcerted him, for he said nothing, and in a little I could see the impulse had left him. I began to talk, not of my own work, which I thought would have no interest for him, but of his, which I was surprised to find he seemed to regard as equally unimportant. I asked him what had first led him to take it up. “There was nothing else,” he answered. Seeing that I waited for him to go on, he made an effort to shake off his abstraction. “If I hadn’t found it I should have bored myself to death. What is there for a boy of eighteen, with no taste for society, and left to wander about Europe alone, to do? Fortunately, I had always cared for pictures, and early Italian art appealed to me particularly.” “Of course, you had your writing.”