He sighed sadly, and went on:
“Ah, Noll, he only knows the whole delight of having possessed a child who has lost it.... Books are one’s most intimate friends—they never change—never play us a shabby trick. How they eat into one’s friendship, each dressed in his individual habit! the very ugliness of some a reason for seeking to win their confidence; perhaps a reason for an easy familiarity—we dog-ear them the more—mark them the more—love them the more. Put them in handsome ranks uniform, and their individuality is gone—like sisters that are primly arrayed to the same pattern to simper through a tedious garden-party. We begin to find faults where was once only affection; and their outward seeming being now alike, like critics we seek to taste not the delights within, but carp because this has not Shakespeare’s wit nor that the thunders and the music of Carlyle. These that were once our closest, most garrulous, most intimate friends have gone to join the silent ranks of library editions that no one reads. These stiff and formal backs, these ornamental edges, these dandified and dyed airs, repel me from my ancient friendships. The intimacy of years is broken—frozen. They open no longer eagerly at the old accustomed places, stained with frequent thumbings, where my own hand cut the dear intimate leaves—they are deckle-edged and bedamned and horrible which were wont to be delightfully impertinent. I cannot find my way in the old garden that I loved—the old dog-ears are smoothed out, gone—my pencillings erased, their whisperings mute, they nudge my elbow no more. These, my one-time boon companions snub me; give me but the flabby handshake of necessity. They open their houses to me mincingly, and yawn affected utterance. They no longer tickle me in the ribs, touching me on the sleeve, nor beckon; they do not chuckle familiarly—nor brood with me upon the roll and march of the great significancies. Their new clothes are insistent—upon them as upon me. They smell of the oil of respectability like gagged Sunday-school children. We know each other no longer—except with formal bow and elaborate etiquette—as when a royal person enters the room of entertainment and puts good-fellowship to the rout.”
He made a pause, and, passing his gaunt hand over his brow, he added sadly:
“I have come home to find myself in a strange land.... Shining-faced respectability has usurped my chair.... My kingdom has slipped from me.... The flowers in my garden are dead.”
Noll patted him on the back:
“Tut, tut, man—you have come into a new kingdom.”
He heard Julia’s voice upon the stair; and he saw that the other had heard it, for he stood up and forced a smile upon his long sad face.
Noll went close to him hurriedly:
“One word, Netherby—quick, before she comes—do you know where Betty is?” he asked hoarsely.
Netherby smiled a sad smile: