“Yet ah! that spring should vanish with the rose,
   That Youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close,”

and breaking off in the middle with sudden tears.

It was necessary for me to adopt a profession, and I remember envying him greatly when he told me that his father, who, I gathered, rather idolised him, was quite content that he should choose for himself at his leisure.  He went abroad for a time; and I met him next in London, where he was proposing to read for the bar; but I discovered that he had really found his metier.  He had written a novel, which he showed me, and though it was in some ways an immature performance, it had, I felt, high and unmistakable literary qualities.  It was published soon afterwards and met with some success.  He thereupon devoted himself to writing, and I was astonished at his industry and eagerness.  He had for the first time found a congenial occupation.  He lived mostly at home in those days, but he was often in London, where he went a good deal into society.  I do not know very much about him at this time, but I gather that he achieved something of a social reputation.  He was never a voluble talker; I do not suppose he ever set the table in a roar, but he had a quiet, humorous and sympathetic manner.  His physical health was then, as always, perfect.  He was never tired or peevish; he was frank, kindly and companionable; he talked little about himself, and had a genuine interest in the study of personality, so that people were apt to feel at their best in his society.  Meanwhile his books came out one after another—­not great books exactly, but full of humour and perception, each an advance on the last.  By the age of thirty he was accepted as one of the most promising novelists of the day.

Then he did what I never expected he would do; he fell wildly and enthusiastically in love with the only daughter of a Gloucestershire clergyman, a man of good family and position.  She was the only child; her mother had died some years before, and her father died shortly after the marriage.  She was a beautiful, vigorous girl, extraordinarily ingenuous, simple-minded, and candid.  She was not clever in the common acceptance of the term, and was not the sort of person by whom I should have imagined that my friend would have been attracted.  They settled in a pleasant house, which they built in Surrey, on the outskirts of a village.  Three children were born to them—­a boy and a girl, and another boy, who survived his birth only a few hours.  From this time he almost entirely deserted London, and became, I thought, almost strangely content with a quiet domestic life.  I was often with them in those early days, and I do not think I ever saw a happier circle.  It was a large and comfortable house, very pleasantly furnished, with a big garden.  His father died in the early years of the marriage, and left him a good income; with the proceeds of his books he was a comparatively wealthy man.  His