He seemed for the while oblivious to things mundane. A party of laughing, chattering, terrible tourist girls scrambled down the rugged steps, and one by one passed in front of him. Neither their presence nor the inquisitive glances they cast on his statuesque face roused him from his fit of abstraction. For a moment I wondered if the boy took opium or some other narcotic on the sly. Full of the thought I rose, crossed over to him, and laid my hand upon his shoulder. As he felt my touch he came to himself, and looked up at me in a dazed, inquiring way.
“Really, Carriston,” I said, laughingly, “you must reserve your dreaming fits until we are in places where tourists do not congregate, or you will be thought a madman, or at least a poet.”
He made no reply. He turned away from me impatiently, even rudely; then, picking up his brush, went on with his sketch. After awhile he seemed to recover from his pettishness, and we spent the remainder of the day as pleasantly as usual.
As we trudged home in the twilight, he said to me in an apologetic, almost penitent way,
“I hope I was not rude to you just now.”
“When do you mean?” I asked, having almost forgotten the trivial incident.
“When you woke me from what you called my dreaming.”
“Oh dear, no. You were not at all rude. If you had been, it was but the penalty due to my presumption. The flight of genius should be respected, not checked by a material hand.”
“That is nonsense; I am not a genius, and you must forgive me for my rudeness,” said Carriston simply.
After walking some distance in silence he spoke again. “I wish when you are with me you would try and stop me from getting into that state. It does me no good.”