And yet, although he loved best to forgather with those of his own sex, woman meant much for him! There _must_ be a woman somewhere in the world--a needle in a bottle of hay--a nature that could dovetail and fit in with his own; but what a life-long quest to find her! She must be young and beautiful, like Julia--rien que ça!--and as kind and clever and simple and well-bred and easy to live with as Aunt Caroline, and, heavens! how many things besides, before poor Mr. Nobody of Nowhere could make her happy, and be made happy by her! So Mr. Nobody of Nowhere gave it up, and stuck to his work, and made much progress, and was well content with things as they were. He had begun late, and found many difficulties in spite of his great natural facility. His principal stock in trade was his keen perception of human beauty, of shape and feature and expression, male or female--of face or figure or movement; and a great love and appreciation of human limbs, especially hands and feet. With a very few little pen-strokes he could give the most marvellously subtle likenesses of people he knew--beautiful or ordinary or plain or hideous; and the beauty of the beautiful people, just hinted in mere outline, was so keen and true and fascinating that this extraordinary power of expressing it amounted to real genius. It is a difficult thing, even for a master, to fully render with an ordinary steel pen and a drop of common ink (and of a size no bigger than your little finger nail) the full face of a beautiful woman, let us say; or a child, in sadness or merriment or thoughtful contemplation; and make it as easily and unmistakably recognizable as a good photograph, but with all the subtle human charm and individuality of expression delicately emphasized in a way that no photograph has ever achieved yet. And this he could always do in a minute from sheer memory and unconscious observation; and in another few minutes he would add on the body, in movement or repose, and of a resemblance so wonderful and a grace so enchanting, or a humor so happily, naïvely droll, that one forgot to criticise the technique, which was quite that of an amateur; indeed, with all the success he achieved as an artist, he remained an amateur all his life. Yet his greatest admirers were among the most consummate and finished artists of their day, both here and abroad. It was with his art as with his singing: both were all wrong, yet both gave extraordinary pleasure; one almost feared that regular training would mar the gift of God, so much of the charm we all so keenly felt lay in the very imperfections themselves--just as one loved him personally as much for his faults as for his virtues. "Il a les qualités de ses défauts, le beau Josselin," said M. Taine one day. "Mon cher," said M. Renan, "ses défauts sont ses meilleures qualités."