him, and it was evidently a great pleasure to
him to meet us again. Since his visit I have been pondering deeply.
What is one's duty in these matters? How far ought loyalty to old
friends to go? I confess that I am somewhat vexed and dissatisfied with
myself for not being more simply pleased to see an old comrade--actae
non alio rege puertiae, and all that. But what if the old comrade is a
bore? What are the claims of friendship on busy men? I have a good many
old friends in all parts of England--ought I to use my holidays in
touring about to see them? I am inclined to think that I am not bound
to do so. But suppose that Cooper goes away, and says to another friend
that I am a man who forgets old ties; that he took some trouble to see
me, and found me absorbed, and not particularly glad to see him? I
hope, indeed, that this was not his impression; but boredom is a subtle
thing, and it is difficult to keep it out of one's manner, however
religiously one tries to be cheerful. Well, if he DOES feel thus, is he
right and am I wrong? His whole life lies on different lines to my own,
and though we had much in common in the old pleasant days, we have not
much in common now. It is quite possible that he thinks I am a bore;
and it is even possible that he is right there too. But, que faire? que
penser? I can honestly say that if Cooper wanted my help, my advice, my
sympathy, I would give it him without grudging. But is it a part of
loyalty that I must desire to see him, and even to be bored by him? I
am inclined to think that if I had a simpler, more affectionate nature,
I should probably NOT be bored, but that in my gladness at the sight of
an old friend and the reviving of old memories, the idea of criticism
would die a natural death.

What I have suffered from all my life is making friends too easily. It
is so painful to me being with a person who seems to be dull, that I
have always instinctively tried to be interested in, and to interest my
companion. The result has been--I am making a very barefaced
confession--that I have been often supposed to be more friendly than I
really am, and to allow a certain claim of loyalty to be established
which I could not sincerely sustain.--Ever yours,

T. B.

KNAPSTEAD VICARAGE,
BALDOCK,
Aug. 14, 1904.

MY DEAR HERBERT,--A curious little incident occurred to me
yesterday--so curious, so inexplicable, that I cannot refrain from
telling it to you, though it has no solution