“Oh, you needn’t give so many reasons,” said Newman.  “You are simply tired of my company.  You have a good right to be.”

“No, no, I am not tired!” cried the pestered young divine.  “It is very wrong to be tired.”

“I give it up!” laughed Newman.  “But of course it will never do to go on making mistakes.  Go your way, by all means.  I shall miss you; but you have seen I make friends very easily.  You will be lonely, yourself; but drop me a line, when you feel like it, and I will wait for you anywhere.”

“I think I will go back to Milan.  I am afraid I didn’t do justice to Luini.”

“Poor Luini!” said Newman.

“I mean that I am afraid I overestimated him.  I don’t think that he is a painter of the first rank.”

“Luini?” Newman exclaimed; “why, he’s enchanting—­he’s magnificent!  There is something in his genius that is like a beautiful woman.  It gives one the same feeling.”

Mr. Babcock frowned and winced.  And it must be added that this was, for Newman, an unusually metaphysical flight; but in passing through Milan he had taken a great fancy to the painter.  “There you are again!” said Mr. Babcock.  “Yes, we had better separate.”  And on the morrow he retraced his steps and proceeded to tone down his impressions of the great Lombard artist.

A few days afterwards Newman received a note from his late companion which ran as follows:—­

My Dear Mr. Newman,—­I am afraid that my conduct at Venice, a week ago, seemed to you strange and ungrateful, and I wish to explain my position, which, as I said at the time, I do not think you appreciate.  I had long had it on my mind to propose that we should part company, and this step was not really so abrupt as it seemed.  In the first place, you know, I am traveling in Europe on funds supplied by my congregation, who kindly offered me a vacation and an opportunity to enrich my mind with the treasures of nature and art in the Old World.  I feel, therefore, as if I ought to use my time to the very best advantage.  I have a high sense of responsibility.  You appear to care only for the pleasure of the hour, and you give yourself up to it with a violence which I confess I am not able to emulate.  I feel as if I must arrive at some conclusion and fix my belief on certain points.  Art and life seem to me intensely serious things, and in our travels in Europe we should especially remember the immense seriousness of Art.  You seem to hold that if a thing amuses you for the moment, that is all you need ask for it, and your relish for mere amusement is also much higher than mine.  You put, however, a kind of reckless confidence into your pleasure which at times, I confess, has seemed to me—­shall I say it?—­almost cynical.  Your way at any rate is not my way, and it is unwise that we should attempt any longer to pull together.  And yet, let me add that I know there is a great deal to be said for your way; I have felt its attraction, in your society, very