I was more struck by his gifts then, perhaps, than I was later, though even at that time he seemed to me to be intensely one-sided. He was very intelligent, but from the beginning his whole manner of looking upon life was, in my opinion, unfortunate. It may sound harsh to say so, but as the years passed I do not think he improved. Latterly, he appeared to me to have little but his fine taste. It was as if everything had become subservient to an aesthetic sense, which was extraordinarily, morbidly acute. Yet even while I write this I have a suspicion that I am not doing him justice. If he had been nothing but what I say he was, I should not be able to look back with tenderness upon the friendship of those early days, whereas the recollection of that friendship will always remain one of the pleasantest memories of my life. I regret that it should have been broken, but that was almost inevitable. It came about slowly and naturally, though no doubt the actual break was hastened by a mutual friend of ours, who informed me that Waring had described me as borné and tedious. That is the kind of thing which rankles. You may say to yourself it is of no consequence, but to have an uneasy feeling that your friend finds your company dull quickly becomes unendurable. A man would rather be thought almost anything than a bore; hence it was that for a long time I entirely ceased to see him. I regret it now, for he may never have made the fatal remark, and even if he did, judging from his journal, it need not have been inconsistent with affection.
The last time I saw him was at Mrs. Carroll's house, about a year before his death. She had asked me down, I suppose by Waring's request, and I went, though I stayed only one night. I had not seen him for years until this occasion, and I was struck, and even shocked, by his altered appearance, and still more by his manner, which was that, I imagined, of a man haunted by some secret thought that
