indeed, that he is just a little too deferential at moments.  He feels a certain respect for some of my work, but thinks, I am sure, that I ceased writing none too soon—­which is very true.  If I had not been such a lucky fellow—­if at this moment I were still toiling for bread—­it is probable that he and I would see each other very seldom; for N—–­ has delicacy, and would shrink from bringing his high-spirited affluence face to face with Grub Street squalor and gloom; whilst I, on the other hand, should hate to think that he kept up my acquaintance from a sense of decency.  As it is we are very good friends, quite unembarrassed, and—­for a couple of days—­really enjoy the sight and hearing of each other.  That I am able to give him a comfortable bedroom, and set before him an eatable dinner, flatters my pride.  If I chose at any time to accept his hearty invitation, I can do so without moral twinges.

Two thousand pounds!  If, at N—–­’s age, I had achieved that income, what would have been the result upon me?  Nothing but good, I know; but what form would the good have taken?  Should I have become a social man, a giver of dinners, a member of clubs?  Or should I merely have begun, ten years sooner, the life I am living now?  That is more likely.

In my twenties I used to say to myself:  what a splendid thing it will be when I am the possessor of a thousand pounds!  Well, I have never possessed that sum—­never anything like it—­and now never shall.  Yet it was not an extravagant ambition, methinks, however primitive.

As we sat in the garden dusk, the scent of our pipes mingling with that of roses, N—–­ said to me in a laughing tone:  “Come now, tell me how you felt when you first heard of your legacy?” And I could not tell him; I had nothing to say; no vivid recollection of the moment would come back to me.  I am afraid N—–­ thought he had been indiscreet, for he passed quickly to another subject.  Thinking it over now, I see, of course, that it would be impossible to put into words the feeling of that supreme moment of life.  It was not joy that possessed me; I did not exult; I did not lose control of myself in any way.  But I remember drawing one or two deep sighs, as if all at once relieved of some distressing burden or constraint.  Only some hours after did I begin to feel any kind of agitation.  That night I did not close my eyes; the night after I slept longer and more soundly than I remember to have done for a score of years.  Once or twice in the first week I had a hysterical feeling; I scarce kept myself from shedding tears.  And the strange thing is that it seems to have happened so long ago; I seem to have been a free man for many a twelvemonth, instead of only for two.  Indeed, that is what I have often thought about forms of true happiness; the brief are quite as satisfying as those that last long.  I wanted, before my death, to enjoy liberty from care, and repose in a place I love.  That was granted me; and, had I known it only for one whole year, the sum of my enjoyment would have been no whit less than if I live to savour it for a decade.