One of these was a man who invited himself to come and see me; the
excuse, a small matter of business; but he added that we had many
common friends, that he had read my books, and much wished to make my
acquaintance.
He came down to luncheon and to spend the afternoon. He was a tall,
handsome, well-dressed man, with a courteous, conventional manner, but
every inch a gentleman. He had a perfect social ease; he began by
paying me rather trite compliments, saying that he found my books
extremely sympathetic, and that I constantly put feelings into words
which he had always had and which he had never been able to express.
Then we turned to our business and finished it in five minutes. It now
remained to fill the remainder of the time. We strolled round the
garden; we lunched; we strolled again. We had an early tea, and I
walked down to the station with him. I had thought that perhaps he
wished to discuss some of the topics on which I had written in my
books; but he did not appear to have any such wish. He had lately taken
a house himself in the country; and he appeared to wish to tell me
about that. I was delighted to hear about it, because I am always
interested to hear how other people live; but I began to be surprised
when I discovered that this seemed to be the only thing he wished to
talk about. He described the house, the garden, the village, the
neighbours; he described his mode of life, his parties, the things he
said to other people, the visits he paid.
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