In after years you can return to your own country—to your friends. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. You really ought not to stay here and talk to us. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project.
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