About the middle of February, 1879, I was sitting at work in my lodgings in Newman Street, when I was interrupted by the advent of my landlady, to inform me that there was a gentleman below who wished to see me.  I told her to show him up, and she returned in a moment, ushering in, to my extreme surprise, Arthur Hamilton.  I confess I hardly knew him at first.  He had grown a beard, and looked thinner and graver than he used to do.  He had the same slow, almost stately movement, with a slight and not ungraceful suggestion of languor; his manner was somewhat changed, and very much improved; and he had contracted, from living so long with strangers, a delightfully frank and free way of speaking.  He never gave me, as he used to, the least feeling of constraint; he always seemed perfectly at his ease.  And he had acquired, too, the art of asking unobtrusive questions of a tentative kind, so as to feel out the interests of his companion, and draw him out; not in that professional way which so-called influential people often acquire—­the melancholy confidential smile, the intimate manner, and the air of bland inattention with which they receive your remarks, only to be detected in the fixed or wandering eye.  He had learnt the art of being interested in other people, and in what they had to say, and of indicating by a subtle tact in speech that he was following them, and intelligently sympathizing with them.

He did not then tell me much about himself.  He confessed that the most rapturous feeling he had known since he set off on his travels, was the hour or two as he whirled through the flat pasture-lands and the pleasant green of Kent.

He gave me no detailed descriptions of adventures, but hinted in a suggestive way that he had seen much, and thought more.  “I think I have learnt myself very fairly,” was the only remark he made about his own personal experience.

“To finish my tour,” he said, “I want to see something of my native land.  I have been away so long, that I don’t know where to begin, and I want you to help me.  I want to be introduced to a few Christian households, that I may see the kind of people that our Western friends are.”

I had an uncle, a Mr. Raymond, who had made a fortune in business, lived in a fine house in Lancaster Gate, and saw a good deal of fairly interesting and cultivated people.  I took him to dine there once or twice, and he needed nothing else.  He had a real genius for tete-a-tete conversation; that is, he could listen without appearing only to listen.  He made people feel at their best with him.  My aunt’s criticism of him was highly characteristic of the British matron and her choice of friends.

“I thoroughly approve, Harry,” she said to me, “of your friend, Mr. Hamilton.  He is very well-informed and clever, and he doesn’t allow it to make him in the least disagreeable.”  And starting from this, he was asked to dinner by, and invited to visit, a fair selection of pleasant people.