He was always addressed as Mr. Stokes; Hall complimented him and kept him well supplied with whiskey-and-water.  He was listened to on account of his age—­that is to say, on account of his apparent age, and on account of his gentleness.  Harding had described him as one who talked learned nonsense in sweetly-measured intonations.  But although Harding ridiculed him, he often led him into conversation, and listened with obvious interest, for Mr. Stokes had drifted through many modes and manners of life, and had in so doing acquired some vague knowledge.

He had written a book on the ancient religions of India, which he called the Cradleland of Arts and Creeds, and Harding, ever on the alert to pick a brain however poor it might be, enticed him into discussion in which frequent allusion was made to Vishnu and Siva.

Yes, drifted is the word that best expresses Mr. Stokes’ passage through life—­he had drifted.  He was one of the many millions who live without a fixed intention, without even knowing what they desire; and he had drifted because in him strength and weakness stood at equipoise; no defect was heavy enough for anchor, nor was there any quality large enough for sufficient sail; he had drifted from country to country, from profession to profession, whither winds and waves might bear him.

“Of course I’m a failure,” was a phrase that Mr. Stokes repeated with a mild, gentle humour, and without any trace of bitterness.  He spoke of himself with the naive candour of a docile school-boy, who has taken up several subjects for examination and been ploughed in them all.  For Mr. Stokes had been to Oxford, and left it without taking a degree.  Then he had gone into the army, and had proved himself a thoroughly inefficient soldier, and more than any man before or after, had succeeded in rousing the ire of both adjutant and colonel.  It was impossible to teach him any drill; what he was taught to-day he forgot to-morrow; when the general came down to inspect, the confusion he created in the barrack-yard had proved so complex, that for a second it had taxed the knowledge of the drill-sergeant to get the men straight again.

Mr. Stokes was late at all times and all occasions:  he was late for drill, he was late for mess, he was late for church; and when sent for he was always found in his room, either learning a part or writing a play.  His one passion was theatricals; and wherever the regiment was stationed, he very soon discovered those who were disposed to get up a performance of a farce.

When he left the army he joined the Indian bar, and there he applied himself in his own absent-minded fashion to the study of Sanscrit, neglecting Hindustani, which would have been of use to him in his profession.  Through India, China, and America he had drifted.  In New York he had edited a newspaper; in San Francisco he had lectured, and he returned home with an English nobleman who had engaged him as private secretary.