went on.  She would have married him at any time if he had asked her.  But he did not.  I suppose he could not face the idea of being married.  He always seemed to be on the point of proposing to her, and then he would lose heart at the last minute.  At last she got tired of waiting, and, I suppose, began to care for some one else; but she was very good to Francis, and never lost patience with him.  At last she told him one day quietly that she was engaged, and hoped that they would always remain friends.  I think, do you know, that it was almost more a relief to him than otherwise.  I did my best to help him—­marriage was the one thing he wanted; if he could only have been pushed into it, he would have made a perfect husband, because not only is he very much of a gentleman, but he could never bear to fail any one who depended on him; but he has got the unhappiest mind I know; the moment that he has formed a plan, and sees his way clear, he at once begins to think of all the reasons against it—­ not the selfish reasons, by any means; in this case he reflected, I am sure, how little he had to offer; he could not bring himself to feel that any one could really care for him; and then, too, he never really cared for anything quite enough himself.  Or if he did, he found all sorts of refined reasons why he ought not to do so.  If only he had been a little more selfish, it would have been all right.  Indeed,” said Mrs. T——­, with a smile, “he is the only person of whom I could truthfully say that if he had only been a little more vulgar, he would have been a much happier person.”

I saw a good deal of Willett after that, and he interested me increasingly.  I verified Mrs. T——­’s judgment about him, and found it true in every particular.  I suppose there was some lack of vitality about him, because the more I knew of him the more I found to admire.  He was an exquisitely delicate person, affectionate, responsive, with a fine sense of humour—­indeed, the most disconcerting thing was that he saw to the full the humour of his own position.  But none of the robust motives that spur men to action affected him.  He was ambitious, but he would not make any sacrifices to gain the objects of his ambition.  He could not use his powers on conventional lines.  He was, I think, deeply desirous of confidence and affection, but he could never believe that he deserved either, or that it was possible for him to be interesting to others.  He was laborious, pure-minded, transparently honest, and had a shrewd and penetrating judgment of other people; but he seemed to labour under a sense of shame at his deficiencies, and to feel that he had no claims or rights in the world.  He existed on sufferance.  The smallest shadow of disapproval caused him to abandon any design, not resentfully but eagerly, as though he was fully aware of his own incompetence.

I grew to feel a strong affection for him, and tried in many ways to help and encourage him.  But he always discounted encouragement, and it is a clumsy business trying to help a man who does not demand or desire help.