Howard and I got on admirably as usual. Although we were so
different we had the common ground of a similarity in intellect. On
all strictly intellectual subjects, in psychological discussions, on
points of artistic merit, we seldom differed. His brain was, when he
chose to exert it, singularly brilliant, and in a companion this
compensates me for everything else almost that is wanting. I could
not certainly have lived in the same intimacy with a fool who had
been as high principled, as moral, and as sober as Howard was the
reverse of all these. Our mode of life was very different, as
naturally it would be, since I had come with a predetermination to
do nothing but work, and he with an equally strong one to idle his
days away in the most enjoyable manner he could invent. For myself,
I was fairly content with the prospect before me. Work I was
accustomed to, and it was easy. A new idea for a manuscript had
begun to hover fitfully before my mental vision, and was gradually
absorbing my thoughts into itself. Had I been able to write to and
hear from Lucia I should have been satisfied, but my father had made
the absence of all correspondence between us a sine qua non of my
coming here. When I had heard this I had looked at him with some
little amusement. Such a stipulation as this seemed to me to have
only one interpretation--he hoped and thought I should forget her!
"What is the meaning of this?" I asked.
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