VANCE (holding it back).--“No. I apologize. I retract the Lord Mayor: comparisons are odious. I agree with you, nothing like leather. I mean nothing like a really great soldier,--Hannibal, and so forth. Cherish that conviction, my friend: meanwhile, respect human life; there is another omnibus!” The danger past, the artist thought it prudent to divert the conversation into some channel less exciting. “Mr. Darrell, of course, consents to your choice of a profession?” “Consents! approves, encourages. Wrote me such a beautiful letter! what a comprehensive intelligence that man has!” “Necessarily; since he agrees with you. Where is he now?” “I have no notion: it is some months since I heard from him. He was then at Malta, on his return from Asia Minor.” “So! you have never seen him since he bade you farewell at his old Manor-house?” “Never. He has not, I believe, been in England.” “Nor in Paris, where you seem to have chiefly resided.” “Nor in Paris. Ah, Vance, could I but be of some comfort to him. Now that I am older, I think I understand in him much that perplexed me as a boy when we parted. Darrell is one of those men who require a home. Between the great world and solitude, he needs the intermediate filling-up which the life domestic alone supplies: a wife to realize the sweet word helpmate; children, with whose future he could knit his own toils and his ancestral remembrances. That intermediate space annihilated, the great world and the solitude are left, each frowning on the other.” “My dear Lionel, you must have lived with very clever people: you are talking far above your years.” “Am I? True; I have lived, if not with very clever people, with people far above my years. That is a secret I learned from Colonel Morley, to whom I must present you,--the subtlest intellect under the quietest manner. Once he said to me, ‘Would you throughout life be up to the height of your century,--always in the prime of man’s reason, without crudeness and without decline,--live habitually while young with persons older, and when old with persons younger, than yourself.’” “Shrewdly said indeed. I felicitate you on the evident result of the maxim. And so Darrell has no home,--no wife and no children?” “He has long been a widower; he lost his only son in boyhood, and his daughter--did you never hear?” “No, what?” “Married so ill--a runaway match--and died many years since, without issue.” “Poor man! It was these afflictions, then, that soured his life, and made him the hermit or the wanderer?”