py or a kitten."

'"I perceive that you have a turn for satire," he said, laughing.
"I will not deny that I have an extraordinarily strong passion for
watching the movements of animals. I have, to the sorrow of my
neighbours, filled my garden in London with all kinds of purchases
from Jamrach's. But from the moment that I knew you, who combined the
fascination of a fawn and a child with that of a sylph or a fairy, my
poor little menagerie was neglected, and what became of its members I
scarcely know. I suppose I am very uncomplimentary to you, but you
would have the truth. The moment that I felt myself threatened by the
fiend _Ennui_ I used to tell Mrs. Titwing, who was in the habit of
calling you her baby, to bring you into the studio, and at once the
fiend fled. At last I grew so attached to you that your presence was
a positive necessity of my life. Unless I knew that you were in the
studio I could not paint. It was necessary for me at intervals to
look across the room at that divan and see you there amusing
yourself--playing with yourself, so to speak, sometimes like a
kitten, sometimes like a child. I would not have parted with you for
the world."

'He did not say he would not now part with me for the world, Henry,
and I thought I understood the meaning of that expression of
disappointment which I had observed in his eyes when I first saw them
looking into mine. I thought I understood this extraordinary man--so
unlike all others; I thought I knew why my eyes lost the charm he was
now so eloquently describing to me the moment that they became
lighted with what he called self-consciousness.

'After a while I said, "But as I was in such an unconscious state as
you describe, how could you possibly know that a speciality of mine
is a love of Nature?"

'"It was only when you were out in the open air that the condition
which I have compared to somnambulism seemed at times to disappear.
Then your consciousness seemed to spring up for a moment and to take
heed of what was passing around you. You would sometimes scamper
through the meadows, pluck the wild-flowers and weave them into
wreaths round your head, or stand listening to the birds, or hold out
your hands as if to embrace the sunny wind. One day when a friend of
mine, an enthusiastic angler, who comes here, was going down to the
river to fish, you showed the greatest interest in what was going on.
The fishing tackle seemed so familiar to you that my friend put a