“It’s nearly fifteen years, as you say,” he began, “since you used to call me ‘butter-fingers’ for always missing the ball.  That’s a long time to give an account of, and yet they have been, for me, such eventless, monotonous years, that I could almost tell their history in ten words.  You, I suppose, have had all kinds of adventures and travelled over half the world.  I remember you had a turn for deeds of daring; I used to think you a little Captain Cook in roundabouts, for climbing the garden fence to get the ball when I had let it fly over.  I climbed no fences then or since.  You remember my father, I suppose, and the great care he took of me?  I lost him some five months ago.  From those boyish days up to his death we were always together.  I don’t think that in fifteen years we spent half a dozen hours apart.  We lived in the country, winter and summer, seeing but three or four people.  I had a succession of tutors, and a library to browse about in; I assure you I am a tremendous scholar.  It was a dull life for a growing boy, and a duller life for a young man grown, but I never knew it.  I was perfectly happy.”  He spoke of his father at some length, and with a respect which I privately declined to emulate.  Mr. Pickering had been, to my sense, a frigid egotist, unable to conceive of any larger vocation for his son than to strive to reproduce so irreproachable a model.  “I know I have been strangely brought up,” said my friend, “and that the result is something grotesque; but my education, piece by piece, in detail, became one of my father’s personal habits, as it were.  He took a fancy to it at first through his intense affection for my mother and the sort of worship he paid her memory.  She died at my birth, and as I grew up, it seems that I bore an extraordinary likeness to her.  Besides, my father had a great many theories; he prided himself on his conservative opinions; he thought the usual American laisser-aller in education was a very vulgar practice, and that children were not to grow up like dusty thorns by the wayside.”  “So you see,” Pickering went on, smiling and blushing, and yet with something of the irony of vain regret, “I am a regular garden plant.  I have been watched and watered and pruned, and if there is any virtue in tending I ought to take the prize at a flower show.  Some three years ago my father’s health broke down, and he was kept very much within doors.  So, although I was a man grown, I lived altogether at home.  If I was out of his sight for a quarter of an hour he sent some one after me.  He had severe attacks of neuralgia, and he used to sit at his window, basking in the sun.  He kept an opera-glass at hand, and when I was out in the garden he used to watch me with it.  A few days before his death I was twenty-seven years old, and the most innocent youth, I suppose, on the continent.  After he died I missed him greatly,” Pickering continued, evidently with no intention of making an epigram.  “I stayed at home, in a sort of dull stupor.  It seemed as if life offered itself to me for the first time, and yet as if I didn’t know how to take hold of it.”