Here, with a low table beside him covered with books, and a little reading-desk pushed aside, I found Mr. ——­ sitting.  He was leaning forwards in his chair, and Maud was sitting opposite him.  They appeared to be silent, but with the natural silence that comes of reflection, not the silence of embarrassment.  Maud, I could see, was strangely moved.  He rose up to greet me, a tall, thin figure, dressed in a rough grey suit.  There was little sign of physical ill-health about him.  He had a shock of thick, strong hair, perfectly white.  His face was that of a man who lived much in the open air, clear and ascetic of complexion.  He was not at all what would be called handsome; he had rather heavy features, big, white eyebrows, and a white moustache.  His manner was sedate and extremely unaffected, not hearty, but kindly, and he gave me a quick glance, out of his blue eyes, which seemed to take swift stock of me.  “It is very kind of you to come and see me,” he said in a measured tone.  “Of course I ought to have paid my respects first, but I ventured to take the privilege of age; and moreover I am the obedient property of a very vigilant guardian, whose orders I implicitly obey—­’Do this, and he doeth it.’” He smiled at his niece as he said it, and she said, “Yes, you would hardly believe how peremptory I can be; and I am going to show it by taking Mrs. ——­ away, to show her the garden; and in twenty minutes I must take Mr. ——­ away too, if he will be so kind as help me to sustain my authority.”

The old man sate down again, smiling, and pointed me to a chair.  The other two left us; and there followed what was to me a very memorable conversation.  “We must make the best use of our time, you see,” he said, “though I hope that this will not be the last time we shall meet.  You will confer a very great obligation on me, if you can sometimes come to see me—­and perhaps we may get a walk together occasionally.  So we won’t waste our time in conventional remarks,” he added; “I will only say that I am heartily glad you have come to live here, and I am sure you will find it a beautiful place—­you are wise enough to prefer the country to the town, I gather.”  Then he went on:  “I have read all your books—­I did not read them,” he added with a smile, “that I might talk to you about them, but because they have interested me.  May I say that each book has been stronger and better than the last, except in one case”—­he mentioned the name of a book of mine—­“in which you seemed to me to be republishing earlier work.”  “Yes,” I said, “you are quite right; I was tempted by a publisher and I fell.”  “Well,” he said, “the book was a good one—­and there is something that we lose as we grow older, a sort of youthfulness, a courageous indiscretion, a beautiful freedom of thought; but we can’t have everything, and one’s books must take their appropriate colours from the mind.  May I say that I think your books have grown more and more mature, tolerant, artistic, wise?—­and