My only engagement that afternoon was an arithmetic lesson, and I had not intended to keep it in any case; so I passed in, while he held the gate open politely, murmuring, ‘_Venit Hesperus, ite capellæ_: come, little kid!’ and then apologising abjectly for a familiarity which (he said) was less his than the Roman poet’s. A straight flagged walk led up to the cool-looking old house, and my host, lingering in his progress at this rose-tree and that, forgot all about me at least twice, waking up and apologising humbly after each lapse. During these intervals I put two and two together, and identified him as the Rector: a bachelor, eccentric, learned exceedingly, round whom the crust of legend was already beginning to form; to myself an object of special awe, in that he was alleged to have written a real book. ‘Heaps o’ books,’ Martha, my informant, said; but I knew the exact rate of discount applicable to Martha’s statements. [Illustration: “A STRAIGHT FLAGGED WALK LED UP TO THE COOL-LOOKING OLD HOUSE, AND MY HOST, LINGERING IN HIS PROGRESS AT THIS ROSE-TREE AND THAT, FORGOT ALL ABOUT ME AT LEAST TWICE”] We passed eventually through a dark hall into a room which struck me at once as the ideal I had dreamed but failed to find. None of your feminine fripperies here! None of your chair-backs and tidies! This man, it was seen, groaned under no aunts. Stout volumes in calf and vellum lined three sides; books sprawled or hunched themselves on chairs and tables; books diffused the pleasant odour of printers’ ink and bindings; topping all, a faint aroma of tobacco cheered and heartened exceedingly, as under foreign skies the flap and rustle over the wayfarer’s head of the Union Jack—the old flag of emancipation! And in one corner, book-piled like the rest of the furniture, stood a piano. This I hailed with a squeal of delight. ‘Want to strum?’ inquired my friend, as if it was the most natural wish in the world—his eyes were already straying towards another corner, where bits of writing-table peeped out from under a sort of Alpine system of book and foolscap. ‘O but may I?’ I asked in doubt. ‘At home I’m not allowed to—only beastly exercises!’ ‘Well, you can strum here, at all events,’ he replied; and murmuring absently, ‘_Age, dic Latinum, barbite, carmen_,’ he made his way, mechanically guided as it seemed, to the irresistible writing-table. In ten seconds he was out of sight and call. A great book open on his knee, another propped up in front, a score or so disposed within easy reach, he read and jotted with an absorption almost passionate. I might have been in Bœotia, for any consciousness he had of me. So with a light heart I turned to and strummed.