ears, eh? Ah, well, wait till
you've been a week or two at sea!'

Very quietly I addressed my sluggish and jaded self in this wise. Yet
more than one hurried walker in the city ways looked curiously at me,
as I passed along, with a wondering scrutiny which amused me a good
deal. 'Too tired to prick your ears.' The suggestion came from the
contemptuously self-commiserating thought that I was rather like a
worn-out 'bus horse, to whom some benevolent minor Providence was
offering the freedom of a fine grazing paddock. 'You're too much
galled and spavined, you poor devil, to be moved by verbal assurances.
Wait till you scent the breezy upland, and your feet feel the turf.
You'll know better what it all means then.'

I had entertained vague notions of a little farewell feast which I
would give to Heron, and, possibly, to one or two other friends. But
from the reality of such convivial enterprise I shrank, when the time
came, preferring to adopt, even to Heron, the attitude of a traveller
who would presently return. And when, as the event proved, I found
myself the guest of honour at a dinner presided over by Arncliffe, my
embarrassment pierced through all sense of unreality and caused me
acute discomfort.

It is odd that I, who always have been foolishly sensitive to blame
(from professed critics and others), should shrink so painfully from
spoken praise or formal tribute of any kind. It makes my skin hot even
to recall the one or two such episodes I have faced. The wretched
inability to think where to dispose of one's hands and gaze during the
genial delivery of after-dinner encomiums; the distressing difficulty
of replying! Upon the whole, I think I was better at receiving
punishment. But it is true, the latter one received in privacy, and
was under no obligation to answer; since replying to printed
criticisms was never a folly I indulged.

On the eve of my departure from London I did a curious and perhaps
foolish thing, on the spur of a moment's impulse. I hailed a cab, and
drove to Cynthia's house in Sloane Street. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Barthrop
were at home, and alone, the servant told me; and in another few
moments I was shaking hands with them. Naturally, they called my visit
an unexpected pleasure. It was, in fact, not a very pleasurable
quarter of an hour for either one of us. For years I had known nothing
of their interests, or they of mine. Our talk was necessarily shallow,
and I dare say Cynthia, no less than