d
consummate art, breathing from the youth of the world. He
understood--passionately--the jealous and exclusive temper of the
artist. It was his own temper--though he was no practising
artist--and accounted largely for his actions. What are politics--or
social reform--or religion--or morals--compared to _art_? The true
artist, it has been pleaded again and again, has no country. He
follows Beauty wherever she pitches her tent--'an hourly neighbour.'
Woe to the interests that conflict with this interest! He simply
drives them out of doors, and turns the key upon them!

This, in fact, was the Squire's defence of himself, whenever he
troubled to defend himself. As to the pettinesses of a domineering
and irritable temper, cherished through long years, and flying out
on the smallest occasions--the Squire conveniently forgot them, in
those rare moments of self-vision which were all the gods allowed
him. Of course he was master in his own house and estate--why not?
Of course he fought those who would interfere with him, war or no
war--why not?

He sat down to his table, very sorry for himself, and hotly
indignant with an unreasonable woman. The absence of her figure from
the table on the further side of the room worked upon his nerves.
She had promised at least to stay her month. These were working
hours. What was she doing? She could hardly be packing already!

He tried to give his attention to the notes he had been working at
the day before. Presently he wanted a reference--a line from the
_Philoctetes_. 'The Lemnian fire'--where on earth was the passage?
He lifted his head instinctively. If only she had been there--it was
_monstrous_ that she wasn't there!--he would just have thrown the
question across the room, and got an answer. Her verbal memory was
astonishing--much better than his.

He must, of course, get up and look out the reference for himself.
And the same with others. In an hour's time he had accomplished
scarcely anything, and a settled gloom descended upon him. That was
the worst of accustoming yourself to crutches and helps. When they
were unscrupulously and unjustly taken away, a man was worse off
than if he had never had them.

The evening post came in. The Squire looked through it with disgust.
He perceived that several letters were answers to some he had
allowed his secretary to draft and send in his name--generally in
reply to exasperated correspondents who had been kept waiting for
months, and tr