The table was cleared, the fire was stirred, two leather arm-chairs
were pushed up to the hearth. Watts-Dunton wanted gossip of the
present. I wanted gossip of the great past. We settled down for a
long, comfortable afternoon together.
Only once was the ritual varied. Swinburne (I was told before
luncheon) had expressed a wish to show me his library. So after the
meal he did not bid us his usual adieu, but with much courtesy invited
us and led the way. Up the staircase he then literally bounded--three,
literally three, stairs at a time. I began to follow at the same rate,
but immediately slackened speed for fear that Watts-Dunton behind us
might be embittered at sight of so much youth and legerity. Swinburne
waited on the threshold to receive us, as it were, and pass us in.
Watts-Dunton went and ensconced himself snugly in a corner. The sun
had appeared after a grey morning, and it pleasantly flooded this big
living-room whose walls were entirely lined with the mellow backs of
books. Here, as host, among his treasures, Swinburne was more than
ever attractive. He was as happy as was any mote in the sunshine about
him; and the fluttering of his little hands, and feet too, was but as
a token of so much felicity. He looked older, it is true, in the
strong light. But these added years made only more notable his
youngness of heart.
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