I never knew anything about the background of his life. He
must have had some small means of his own, and he lived in rooms,
in rather an out-of-the-way street near Regent's Park. One used to
see him occasionally in London, walking rapidly, almost always
alone, and very rarely I encountered him at parties, always wearing
a slightly regretful air, as though he were wishing himself away.
He wrote a good deal, reviewed books, and, I suppose, contrived to
make enough to live on by his pen. He once spoke of himself as
being in the happy position of being able to exist without writing,
but forced to purchase all small luxuries by work. He published two
or three books of short stories and sketches of travel, delicate
pieces of work, which had no great sale, but gave him a recognised
position among men of letters. I drifted into a kind of friendship
with him; we were members of the same club, and he sometimes used
to flutter shyly into my rooms like a great moth; but he never
asked me to his quarters.
I discovered that he had done well at Oxford, and also that he had
once, at all events, had considerable ambitions; but his health was
not strong, he was extremely sensitive, and very fastidious about
the quality of his work.
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