habits as
these, the society of his only child would be an unspeakable comfort.
But, with my father, this did not appear to be by any means the case.
He never took me out of town with him on his annual pilgrimage to the
country; and, when he was at home, it often happened that I did not see
him, face to face, for weeks together. As a consequence of this
peculiar arrangement, almost the whole of the time which I spent indoors
was passed in the nursery, where also my meals were served, and wherein
my only companion was Mary, the nursemaid.

The only exceptions to this isolated state of existence were those rare
occasions when my father, without the slightest warning, and apparently
with as little reason, used to send for me to visit him in his studio.
It was during these interviews that his peculiar treatment of me became
most noticeable. As a general rule, when--after a vigorous cleansing of
my face and hands and a change of my raiment had been effected by the
nursemaid--I was introduced into the studio, my father would ensconce me
in a roomy old easy-chair by the fire; provide me with a picture-book of
some kind wherewith to amuse myself; and then take no further notice of
me. This, however, seemed to depend to some extent upon the greeting
which I received from him, and that proved to be a tolerably accurate
index of the humour which happened to possess him at the moment.
Sometimes the greeting would consist of a cold shake of the hand and an
equally cold "I hope you are well, boy," accompanied by a single keen
glance which seemed at once to take in every detail of my person and
clothing. Sometimes the shake of the hand would be somewhat warmer, the
accompanying remark being, perhaps, "I am glad to see you looking so
well, my boy." And occasionally--but very rarely--I was agreeably
surprised to find myself received with an affectionate embrace and
kiss--which I always somewhat timidly returned--and the words, "Lionel,
my son, how are you?"

When the greeting reached this stage of positive warmth, it usually
happened that, instead of being consigned at once to the arm-chair and
the picture-book, I was lifted to my father's knee, when, laying aside
palette and brushes, he would proceed to ask me all sorts of questions,
such as, What had I been doing lately; where had I been, and what had I
seen worthy of notice; did I want any new toys? and so on; enticing me
out of my reserve until he had coaxed me into talking fr