He settled down in a small inn and plied his brush busily.

Of course he did not paint anything that the ordinary person cared to see, or in the way in which it would appear to such person.

But he was greatly pleased with his work; and one day, as he threw himself down on a bank at noon and got out his bread and cheese, he was so carried away, being by nature a conceited man, as to exclaim: "My head of Stafford was the best head done these hundred years; and that's the best bit of background done these hundred and fifty!" The frame of the phrase seemed familiar to him as he uttered it, and he had just succeeded in tracing it back to the putative parentage of Lord Verulam, when, to his great astonishment, he heard Stafford's voice from the top of the bank, saying: "As I am in your mind already, Mr.Morewood, I feel my bodily appearance less of an intrusion on your solitude." "Why, how in the world did you come here ?" The spot was within ten miles of the Retreat, and part of Stafford's treatment for himself consisted of long walks; but he only replied: "I am staying near here." "For health, eh ?" "Yes--for health." "Well, I'm glad to see you.

How are you?
You don't look very first-class." Stafford came down the bank without replying, and sat down.

He was, in spite of it being the country and very hot, dressed in his usual black, and looked paler and thinner than ever.
"Have some lunch ?" Stafford smiled.
"There's only enough for one," he said.
"Nonsense, man!" "No, really; I never take it." A pause ensued.