I loved him--God knows! unselfishly, sincerely--with that rare tenderness sometimes felt by schoolboys for one another, but seldom experienced by grown men.

I was happy in his society, as he, indeed, appeared to be in mine.

We passed most of our time together, he, like myself, having been bereaved of his parents in early youth, and therefore left to shape out his own course of life as suited his particular fancy.

He chose art as a profession, and, though a fairly successful painter, was as poor as I was rich.

I remedied this neglect of fortune for him in various ways with due forethought and delicacy--and gave him as many commissions as I possibly could without rousing his suspicion or wounding his pride.