man, he is so entirely unpretentious that he
could hold his own in any company. He would sit next a commercial
traveller and talk to him pleasantly, just as he would sit next the
King, if it fell to his lot to do so, and talk without any
embarrassment.

I find it hard to say why it is that a man who is so admirable in his
conduct of life and in his relations with others inspires me at times
with so strange a mixture of anger and terror. I am angry because I
feel that he takes no account of many of the best things in the world;
I am frightened because he is so extraordinarily strong and complete.
If he were to be given absolute and despotic power, he would arrange
the government of a State on just and equable lines; the only tyranny
that he would originate would be the tyranny of common-sense. The only
thing which he would be hard on would be unreasonableness in any form.
I am very fond of reasonableness myself; I think it a very fine and
beautiful quality, and I think that it wins probably the best victories
of the world. But I desire in the world a certain driving force,
whereas to me Meyrick only represents an immensely strong regulating
force. When I am away from him I think subordination and regulation are
very fine things, but when I am with him I feel that my liberty is
somehow strangely curtailed. I cannot be fanciful or extravagant in
Meyrick's company; his polite laugh would be a disheartening rebuke; he
would think my extravagance an agreeable conversational ornament, but
he would put me down as a man unfit to be placed upon a syndicate. I do
not feel that I am being consciously judged and condemned; I simply
feel that I am being unconsciously estimated; which fills me with
inexplicable rage.

I wrote this on Sunday evening, having spent an hour or two in his
company, I can still see him as I stopped to say farewell to him on the
long, straight road leading to Cambridge. "Going to turn back here?
Well, I must be getting on--very good of you to give me
luncheon--good-bye!" with a little brisk smile--he never shakes hands,
I must add, on these occasions. I stood for an instant to watch him
walk off at a good pace down the road. His boots rose and fell
rhythmically, and he put his stick down at regular intervals. He never
turned his head, but no doubt plunged into some definite train of
thought. Indeed, I have little doubt that he had arranged beforehand
exactly what he would think out when I left him alone.