act, I should have driven down to Truro,
only I am not quite the thing to-day."

I looked rather anxiously at him, to see how he appeared to be, and
was much struck with the change in him. There had crept into his face
what has been called a look of "doom." The Stuarts are said to have
had it. I can not describe it in any other way. It was that of a man
waiting for something, bravely and calmly, but still with a certain
sort of apprehension. He looked very solemn and grave when he was not
speaking, and he was apt to get a kind of brooding look, which did
not disperse till one spoke to him. He was thinner, too, and paler,
though the old lock of hair still dangled over his forehead, and his
eyes had the old affectionate look.

He was playful and humorous in a quiet way. I have forgotten what we
talked about--we discussed people and things vaguely; I can only
remember one little remark he made which struck me as being highly
characteristic. I had said, in reply to some question as to one of
our friends, "Oh, he's perfectly crazy." "Yes," said Arthur, mildly:
"he has certainly got some curious mannerisms."

I ventured to remonstrate with him about the cigarette, but he said
gravely that he had given up thinking about his health, it was so
very inferior, and that he had come to the conclusion that nothing
in moderation made him either better or worse; "and an occasional
cigarette," he said, "adds so much to my general serenity, that I
feel sure it is perfectly justifiable."

I had a very delightful week there. He talked a good deal, when he
was in the mood, about the books he had been reading and the thoughts
he had been thinking; but his physical languor at times, especially
in the mornings, was very painful to see. He did not get up till very
late, and complained to me more than once of a terrible listlessness
and dejection to which he was liable during the earlier part of the
day. But he spoke little of his own sufferings, or rather _malaise_,
which I gathered was very great, only saying once or twice, "It is
fortunate how habituated one gets to things, even to enduring
discomfort. If I can only get my mind occupied, it hardly ever
distracts me now." And again--"I think the only really valuable
experiences are those that we can not lay down and take up at will,
but which continue with us, invariable, unaltering, day after day,
meeting us at every moment and tempering every mood." And once--"In
spite of everything, I