“Oh, he often goes away—­sometimes to Europe, and sometimes to the great American centres of thought and life; then he comes home apparently glad of its quiet and freedom from interruption.  I think he uses up all the raw experiences and ideas he gets when away.”

I thought her reply over, and wondered if it was the usual habit of literary people to go out on those foraging expeditions and bring back material to be used up in weeks of solitude.  We were either out among friends, at concerts, lectures, evening gatherings, or else receiving Mr. Winthrop’s particular friends at our hotel, every evening.  I enjoyed those evenings at home, I think, the very best of all.  We sat late, supper being served about midnight—­a plain, sensible repast that, with a man of Mr. Winthrop’s means, might certainly betoken high thinking.  However, the intellectual repast served to us reminded me of the feasts of the gods, or even better, in old Homeric times.  There were condensed thoughts that often kept me puzzling over their meanings long after their words had died on the air.  Mrs. Flaxman sat, a mostly silent listener, but in no wise showing weariness at the lateness of the hour, or mental strain imposed in following such abstract lines of thought.  I too listened silently, save in reply to some direct remark, but with pained, growing thoughts, that often left me utterly weary when the little company dispersed.  I would often stop listening and fall into vague, hopeless speculations as to the number of centuries that must elapse before I could overtake them.  Saddest fancy of all was that my powers might be too limited even to do this.  Our daylight hours were, in great measure, passed in making and receiving calls from Mrs. Flaxman’s friends, who seemed very quick to find out she was there, and in visiting the huge dressmaking and dry goods establishments which she patronized.  I found it quite difficult, at times, to reconcile the fact that those we met by day were, in the main, created in the same mental likeness as those I listened to with such admiration in the evening.  I used to close my eyes at times and fancy the old heathen, mythology to be true, and that the gods were actually revisiting the earth, and bringing with them the high conceptions from Olympus, I was able more clearly than ever to recognize how high were Mr. Winthrop’s ideals, so far as this world goes, of human excellence and, with deepest humiliation, remembered how far I must have come short of his lowest standards.  I went to Mrs. Flaxman with this new and painful discovery, and as usual, she brought her consolation.

“Very few can hope to attain such excellence of culture and intellect as these men possess.  You and I ought to be grateful to our Creator if he has given us brain power sufficient to appreciate and comprehend their words.  I know it has given Mr. Winthrop deep satisfaction to see you so interested in their conversation.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, pleased at her words.