’"I perceive that you have a turn for satire,” he said, laughing.  “I will not deny that I have an extraordinarily strong passion for watching the movements of animals.  I have, to the sorrow of my neighbours, filled my garden in London with all kinds of purchases from Jamrach’s.  But from the moment that I knew you, who combined the fascination of a fawn and a child with that of a sylph or a fairy, my poor little menagerie was neglected, and what became of its members I scarcely know.  I suppose I am very uncomplimentary to you, but you would have the truth.  The moment that I felt myself threatened by the fiend Ennui I used to tell Mrs. Titwing, who was in the habit of calling you her baby, to bring you into the studio, and at once the fiend fled.  At last I grew so attached to you that your presence was a positive necessity of my life.  Unless I knew that you were in the studio I could not paint.  It was necessary for me at intervals to look across the room at that divan and see you there amusing yourself—­playing with yourself, so to speak, sometimes like a kitten, sometimes like a child.  I would not have parted with you for the world.”

’He did not say he would not now part with me for the world, Henry, and I thought I understood the meaning of that expression of disappointment which I had observed in his eyes when I first saw them looking into mine.  I thought I understood this extraordinary man—­so unlike all others; I thought I knew why my eyes lost the charm he was now so eloquently describing to me the moment that they became lighted with what he called self-consciousness.

’After a while I said, “But as I was in such an unconscious state as you describe, how could you possibly know that a speciality of mine is a love of Nature?”

’"It was only when you were out in the open air that the condition which I have compared to somnambulism seemed at times to disappear.  Then your consciousness seemed to spring up for a moment and to take heed of what was passing around you.  You would sometimes scamper through the meadows, pluck the wild-flowers and weave them into wreaths round your head, or stand listening to the birds, or hold out your hands as if to embrace the sunny wind.  One day when a friend of mine, an enthusiastic angler, who comes here, was going down to the river to fish, you showed the greatest interest in what was going on.  The fishing tackle seemed so familiar to you that my friend put a fishing rod into your hand and you went with him to the river.  I do not myself care for angling, and I was at the time very busy with a picture, but I could not resist the temptation to follow you.  You skipped into the punt with the greatest glee, baited your hook, adjusted your float on the line, cast it into the water and fished with such skill that you caught two fish to my friend’s one.  Observing all these things, I came to the conclusion that you had lived much in the open air, and other incidents made me know that you were a great lover of Nature.”