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and very shortly thereafter the implements of his art would find their way to the lumber-room. This was a course of things which repeated itself again and again.

‘Do you think you would care to study painting?’ his uncle would ask.

‘It would take some time, sir, and cost a good deal of money.’

‘Well, that’s all right; you find the time and I’ll find the money.’

‘It’s very good of you, sir,’ Geoffrey would say, and promise to think the thing over. That was the end of it.

Whether it were that there was an ineradicable defect in the young man’s nature, or merely that his character was slow in developing, was hard to say, but the years crept by and left the problem still unsolved. If he had any taste to which he returned more frequently than another it was for literature. From his boyhood he had been in the habit of scribbling verses and tales for his own amusement, and though there were long intervals between these fits the number of them had given him a certain facility with his pen. His uncle had suggested that he should follow the profession of his father, and Geoffrey consented to give the thing a trial; but this did not last long. He satisfied neither his employers nor himself. The things they wanted done rarely possessed any interest for him, and when his interest was not aroused he was, and felt himself to be, but a dull dog.

‘I was talking to Humphreys,’ his uncle said at last. ‘He seems to think you are wasting your time.’