why he ought not to do
so. If only he had been a little more selfish, it would have been all
right. Indeed," said Mrs. T----, with a smile, "he is the only person
of whom I could truthfully say that if he had only been a little more
vulgar, he would have been a much happier person."

I saw a good deal of Willett after that, and he interested me
increasingly. I verified Mrs. T----'s judgment about him, and found it
true in every particular. I suppose there was some lack of vitality
about him, because the more I knew of him the more I found to admire.
He was an exquisitely delicate person, affectionate, responsive, with a
fine sense of humour--indeed, the most disconcerting thing was that he
saw to the full the humour of his own position. But none of the robust
motives that spur men to action affected him. He was ambitious, but he
would not make any sacrifices to gain the objects of his ambition. He
could not use his powers on conventional lines. He was, I think, deeply
desirous of confidence and affection, but he could never believe that
he deserved either, or that it was possible for him to be interesting
to others. He was laborious, pure-minded, transparently honest, and had
a shrewd and penetrating judgment of other people; but he seemed to
labour under a sense of shame at his deficiencies, and to feel that he
had no claims or rights in the world. He existed on sufferance. The
smallest shadow of disapproval caused him to abandon any design, not
resentfully but eagerly, as though he was fully aware of his own
incompetence.

I grew to feel a strong affection for him, and tried in many ways to
help and encourage him. But he always discounted encouragement, and it
is a clumsy business trying to help a man who does not demand or desire
help.

He seemed to me to have schooled himself into a kind of tender
patience; and this attitude, I am ashamed to say, used to irritate me
considerably, because it seemed to me to be so much power wasted on
accepting defeat, which might have ensured victory.

He was with me a few weeks ago. I was up in town, and he dined with me
by appointment. He told me, with a gentle philosophy, a story which
made my blood boil. He had been asked to write a book by a publisher,
and the lines had been laid down for him. "It was such a comfort to
me," he said, "because it supplied just the stimulus I could not myself
originate. My book was really rather a good piece of work; but a week
ago I sent it