CHAPTER VI.
A week later, early in May, my glorified friend came up to town, where, it may be veraciously recorded he was the king of the beasts of the year.
No advancement was ever more rapid, no exaltation more complete, no bewilderment more teachable.

His book sold but moderately, though the article in _The Empire_ had done unwonted wonders for it; but he circulated in person to a measure that the libraries might well have envied.

His formula had been found--he was a "revelation." His momentary terror had been real, just as mine had been--the overclouding of his passionate desire to be left to finish his work.

He was far from unsociable, but he had the finest conception of being let alone that I've ever met.

For the time, none the less, he took his profit where it seemed most to crowd on him, having in his pocket the portable sophistries about the nature of the artist's task.