The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend. “Was it terrible for you after he died?” “Don’t worry yourself about it John. This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him. She breathed deeply. It was painful to want him so much. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. I wonder,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “whether you ever realize how young you are. Every moment. I've already told you I'm about to take a long journey, and it's more than probable I shall never return.
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