This was three years ago, and ever since he had taken up his quarters on the shores of the gulf, either in one of the hotels in Sorrento or hiring a small villa in Capri.  He had a piano, a few books:  picked up transient acquaintances of a day, week, or month in the stream of travellers from all Europe.  One can imagine him going out for his walks in the streets and lanes, becoming known to beggars, shopkeepers, children, country people; talking amiably over the walls to the contadini—­and coming back to his rooms or his villa to sit before the piano, with his white hair brushed up and his thick orderly moustache, “to make a little music for myself.”  And, of course, for a change there was Naples near by—­life, movement, animation, opera.  A little amusement, as he said, is necessary for health.  Mimes and flute-players, in fact.  Only unlike the magnates of ancient Rome, he had no affairs of the city to call him away from these moderate delights.  He had no affairs at all.  Probably he had never had any grave affairs to attend to in his life.  It was a kindly existence, with its joys and sorrows regulated by the course of Nature—­marriages, births, deaths—­ruled by the prescribed usages of good society and protected by the State.

He was a widower; but in the months of July and August he ventured to cross the Alps for six weeks on a visit to his married daughter.  He told me her name.  It was that of a very aristocratic family.  She had a castle—­in Bohemia, I think.  This is as near as I ever came to ascertaining his nationality.  His own name, strangely enough, he never mentioned.  Perhaps he thought I had seen it on the published list.  Truth to say, I never looked.  At any rate, he was a good European—­he spoke four languages to my certain knowledge—­and a man of fortune.  Not of great fortune evidently and appropriately.  I imagine that to be extremely rich would have appeared to him improper, outre—­too blatant altogether.  And obviously, too, the fortune was not of his making.  The making of a fortune cannot be achieved without some roughness.  It is a matter of temperament.  His nature was too kindly for strife.  In the course of conversation he mentioned his estate quite by the way, in reference to that painful and alarming rheumatic affection.  One year, staying incautiously beyond the Alps as late as the middle of September, he had been laid up for three months in that lonely country house with no one but his valet and the caretaking couple to attend to him.  Because, as he expressed it, he “kept no establishment there.”  He had only gone for a couple of days to confer with his land agent.  He promised himself never to be so imprudent in the future.  The first weeks of September would find him on the shores of his beloved gulf.

Sometimes in travelling one comes upon such lonely men, whose only business is to wait for the unavoidable.  Deaths and marriages have made a solitude round them, and one really cannot blame their endeavours to make the waiting as easy as possible.  As he remarked to me, “At my time of life freedom from physical pain is a very important matter.”