But on Sunday evening he wrote and asked if he might not
call round on me instead. My name is not in the telephone-book; neither, as
I found out, was his. So I used up a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a
stamp--just such as I am now using on you--to tell him that he might
indeed. I put in the 'indeed' for cordiality, hoping he wouldn't think I
had slighted _his_ invitation. On Monday evening he came round--I must
have reached him by the late afternoon delivery. Need I say that he had to
take this poor place as he found it? But there was no sign of the once-
over--no tendency to inventory or appraise. He sat down beside me on the
couch just as if he had no notion that it was a bed (and a rather rocky
one, at that), and talked about my row of books, and about music and plays,
and about his own collection of curios--all in a quiet, contained way, yet
intent on me if not on my outfit. Well, it's pleasant to be considered for
what you are rather than for what you have (or for what few poor sticks
your landlady may have); and I rather liked his being here. Certainly he
was a change from my students, who sometimes seem to exclude better timber.
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