I called for him at his club, but he hadn't been there either--and I
turned my face eastward and homeward with a sickening sense of
desolate ennui and deep disgust of London for which I could find no
terms that are fit for publication!

And this was not lessened by the bitter reproaches I made myself for
being such a selfish and unworthy son and brother. It was precious
dull at home for my mother and sister--and my place was _there_.

They were just lighting the lamps as I got to the arcade in the
Quadrant--and there I ran against the cheerful Barty. Joy! what a
change in the aspect of everything! It rained light! He pulled a new
book out of his pocket, which he had just borrowed from some fair
lady--and showed it to me. It was called _Maud_.

We dined at Pergolese's, in Rupert Street--and went back to
Barty's--and read the lovely poem out loud, taking it by turns; and
that is the most delightful recollection I have since I left the
Institution F. Brossard!

Occasionally I dined with him "on guard" at St. James's Palace--and
well I could understand all the attractions of his life, so
different from mine, and see what a good fellow he was to come so
often to Brunswick Square, and seem so happy with us.

The reader will conclude that I was a kind of over-affectionate
pestering dull dog, who made this brilliant youth's life a burden to
him. It was really not so; we had very many tastes in common; and
with all his various temptations, he had a singularly constant and
affectionate nature--and was of a Frenchness that made French
thought and talk and commune almost a daily necessity. We nearly
always spoke French when together alone, or with my mother and
sister. It would have seemed almost unnatural not to have done so.

I always feel a special tenderness towards young people whose lives
have been such that those two languages are exactly the same to
them. It means so many things to me. It doubles them in my
estimation, and I seem to understand them through and through.

Nor did he seem to care much for the smart society of which he saw
so much; perhaps the bar sinister may have made him feel less at his
ease in general society than among his intimates and old friends. I
feel sure he took this to heart more than any one would have thought
possible from his careless manner.

He only once alluded directly to this when we were together. I was
speaking to him of the enviable brilliancy of his lot. He looked at
me pen