malice in his nature, and he visibly
rejoiced in any sign of goodwill.

Yet even so, he was essentially solitary in mind. "When I am alone," he
once wrote, "I am at my best; and at my worst in company. I am happy and
capable in loneliness; unhappy, distracted, and ineffective in company."
And again he wrote, "I am becoming more and more afraid of meeting
people I want to meet, because my numerous deficiencies are so very
apparent. For example, I stammer slightly always and badly at times."

This was, I believe, more an instinctive shrinking from the expenditure
of nervous force than anything else, and arose from the feeling that, if
he had to meet strangers, some brilliancy of contribution would be
expected of him. I remember how he delighted in the story of Marie
Bashkirtseff, who, when she was summoned to meet a party of strangers
who desired to see her, prayed as she entered the room, "Oh God, make me
worth seeing!" Hugh disliked the possibility of disappointing
expectations, and thus found the society of unfamiliar people a strain;
but in family life, and with people whom he knew well, he was always the
most delightful and charming of companions, quick, ready, and untiring
in talk. And therefore I imagine that, like all artistic people, he
found that the pursuit of some chosen train of thought was less of a
conscious effort to him than the necessity of adapting himself, swiftly
and dexterously, to new people, whose mental and spiritual atmosphere he
was obliged to observe and infer. It was all really a sign of the high
pressure at which he lived, and of the price he paid for his vividness
and animation.

Another source of happiness to him in these last days was his sense of
power. This was a part of his artistic nature; and I believe that he
enjoyed to the full the feeling of being able to give people what they
wanted, to enchant, interest, move, and sway them. This is to some
natures a great temptation, because they come to desire applause, and to
hunger for tangible signs of their influence. But Hugh was marvellously
saved from this, partly by a real modesty which was not only never
marred, but which I used to think increased with the years. There is a
story of William Morris, that he could read aloud his own poetry, and at
the end of a fine stanza would say: "That's jolly!" with an entire
freedom from conceit, just as dispassionately as he could praise the
work of another. I used to feel that when Hugh mention