He smiled, but more to himself than to me. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose it is difficult to be good until you are grown up. Perhaps we shall all of us be good when we're quite grown up.” Which, from a gentleman with a grey beard, appeared to me a puzzling observation. “And what else does mamma say about literature?” he asked. “Can you remember?” Again I pondered, and her words came back to me. “That he who can write a great book is greater than a king; that the gift of being able to write is given to anybody in trust; that an author should never forget he is God's servant.” He sat for awhile without speaking, his chin resting on his folded hands supported by his gold-topped cane. Then he turned and laid a hand upon my shoulder, and his clear, bright eyes were close to mine. “Your mother is a wise lady, Paul,” he said. “Remember her words always. In later life let them come back to you; they will guide you better than the chatter of the Clubs.” “And what modern authors do you read?” he asked after a silence: “any of them--Thackeray, Bulwer Lytton, Dickens?” “I have read 'The Last of the Barons,'” I told him; “I like that. And I've been to Barnet and seen the church. And some of Mr. Dickens'.” “And what do you think of Mr. Dickens?” he asked. But he did not seem very interested in the subject. He had picked up a few small stones, and was throwing them carefully into the water. “I like him very much,” I answered; “he makes you laugh.” “Not always?” he asked. He stopped his stone-throwing, and turned sharply towards me. “Oh, no, not always,” I admitted; “but I like the funny bits best. I like so much where Mr. Pickwick--” “Oh, damn Mr. Pickwick!” he said. “Don't you like him?” I asked. “Oh, yes, I like him well enough, or used to,” he replied; “I'm a bit tired of him, that's all. Does your mamma like Mr.--Mr. Dickens?” “Not the funny parts,” I explained to him. “She thinks he is occasionally--” “I know,” he interrupted, rather irritably, I thought; “a trifle vulgar.” It surprised me that he should have guessed her exact words. “I don't think mamma has much sense of humour,” I explained to him. “Sometimes she doesn't even see papa's jokes.” At that he laughed again. “But she likes the other parts?” he enquired, “the parts where Mr. Dickens isn't--vulgar?” “Oh, yes,” I answered. “She says he can be so beautiful and tender, when he likes.” Twilight was deepening. It occurred to me to enquire of him again the time. “Just over the quarter,” he answered, looking at his watch. “I'm so sorry,” I said. “I must go now.” “So am I sorry, Paul,” he answered. “Perhaps we shall meet again. Good-bye.” Then as our hands touched: “You have never asked me my name, Paul,” he reminded me. “Oh, haven't I?” I answered. “No, Paul,” he replied, “and that makes me think of your future with hope. You are an egotist, Paul; and that is the beginning of all art.”