He, when at his best, was a racy and paradoxical talker--with that natural tinge of veiled melancholy or cynicism half-suspected which is so fascinating, as seeming to imply a "_past_," a history.

He ventured to speak to her more than once about her tendency to "drift." He told me of one conversation in particular.
"I think you have too many friends," he said to her once, at the conclusion of an evening party at her own house.

They were sitting in a balcony looking out on to the square, where the trees were stirring in the light morning wind.
"That's curious," she said.

"I never feel as if I had enough; I have room enough in my heart for the whole world." And she spread out her hands to the great city with all her lights glaring before them.
"God knows I love you all, though I don't know you," she said with a sudden impulse.
They were silent for a moment.
Then she resumed: "Tell me why you said that," she said.

"I like to be told the truth." "_You_ may feel large enough," he said, "but they don't appreciate your capacity; they feel hurt and slighted.