My visitor’s wide eyes grew tenderer. “Then how does she talk—?” “Without ceasing. I only mention her as a single case. Do you want to know how to show a superlative consideration? Simply avoid him.” “Avoid him?” she despairingly breathed. “Don’t force him to have to take account of you; admire him in silence, cultivate him at a distance and secretly appropriate his message. Do you want to know,” I continued, warming to my idea, “how to perform an act of homage really sublime?” Then as she hung on my words: “Succeed in never seeing him at all!” “Never at all?”—she suppressed a shriek for it. “The more you get into his writings the less you’ll want to, and you’ll be immensely sustained by the thought of the good you’re doing him.” She looked at me without resentment or spite, and at the truth I had put before her with candour, credulity, pity. I was afterwards happy to remember that she must have gathered from my face the liveliness of my interest in herself. “I think I see what you mean.” “Oh I express it badly, but I should be delighted if you’d let me come to see you—to explain it better.” She made no response to this, and her thoughtful eyes fell on the big album, on which she presently laid her hands as if to take it away. “I did use to say out West that they might write a little less for autographs—to all the great poets, you know—and study the thoughts and style a little more.” “What do they care for the thoughts and style? They didn’t even understand you. I’m not sure,” I added, “that I do myself, and I dare say that you by no means make me out.” She had got up to go, and though I wanted her to succeed in not seeing Neil Paraday I wanted her also, inconsequently, to remain in the house. I was at any rate far from desiring to hustle her off. As Mrs. Weeks Wimbush, upstairs, was still saving our friend in her own way, I asked my young lady to let me briefly relate, in illustration of my point, the little incident of my having gone down into the country for a profane purpose and been converted on the spot to holiness. Sinking again into her chair to listen she showed a deep interest in the anecdote. Then thinking it over gravely she returned with her odd intonation: “Yes, but you do see him!” I had to admit that this was the case; and I wasn’t so prepared with an effective attenuation as I could have wished. She eased the situation off, however, by the charming quaintness with which she finally said: “Well, I wouldn’t want him to be lonely!” This time she rose in earnest, but I persuaded her to let me keep the album to show Mr. Paraday. I assured her I’d bring it back to her myself. “Well, you’ll find my address somewhere in it on a paper!” she sighed all resignedly at the door. CHAPTER VIII.