manner of expressing it.

Shortly after his return to his home I received a letter, asking me to come down to Bishopsbourne for a Sunday with him. I was met in Canterbury by his son in an American car, and after driving about for a hasty glimpse of this wonderful old town, we proceeded the six miles to Mr. Conrad's house. He was at the door to meet me, and his cordiality gave me a pleasant sense of being welcome. Linking his arm in mine, he said: "There is just time for a stroll over the place before luncheon. I want you to see my trees and flowers."

The house is of generous size, with a hall dividing it in twain; it is of stone, with a roof of tile, and has several large bow-windows. It stands in a plot of ground of two or three acres, and is shielded from the road by a high hedge. Several separate flower gardens of varying shapes and sizes succeeded one another, all of them made beautiful by a skilful use of miniature boxwood hedges, arranged in formal patterns. There was a long bowling-green, with immense banks of flowers, backed by hedges, on each side. The fruit and vegetable gardens, in their own inclosures, were not the least interesting. Pear- and cherrytrees trained flat, like vines, against stone walls were an unusual sight to my American eyes. A huge net covered the cherries to protect them from the birds. There were several trees of great age and size.

The repeated sounding of a Chinese gong failed to lure my host to luncheon until the call was reinforced by a special messenger. Our tardy arrival found Mrs. Conrad waiting with the members of the household and M.

Englishwoman and is possessed of much charm. Her fame as a housewife had often come to my ears before this meeting, and the excellence of our luncheon was well calculated to uphold her reputation. The tastiest dish on the menu she had made with her own hands, rising at an early hour that morning to prepare it, this being an established habit despite the fact that she is badly crippled from an accident, and walks with difficulty with the assistance of a stick. Mr. Conrad told me he has hopes of her complete recovery through the ministrations of an eminent surgeon who is their friend. In the meantime Mrs. Conrad jokes merrily about her stiff knee and the avoirdupois that has been the result of her inability to exercise. The two things, she said, seemed to have joined hands in a conspiracy for her undoing. As for dieting, she found it most difficult, as a good cook must taste of her own broth to be sure of its excellence.

As we passed to the drawing-room for our coffee, I was shown several portraits that had been made of Mr. Conrad, including an interesting caricature by Max Beerbohm. Our stroll in the garden and the leisurely luncheon caused me to be a bit apprehensive about having sufficient time to make a sketch of my host, as a dinner engagement in London made it necessary for me to leave on an early train. But after coffee the drawing-room was soon deserted, and I selected the light and pose, and my subject immediately congealed into a motionless image, hardly daring to wink or breathe. Such a picture of stoic misery made me laugh. He inquired if he had moved.

"Not an eyelash," I said; "but please do, and smoke and talk as much

as you like." His surprise and relief seemed equally great, as he explained that some of his former delineators had been most exacting.

Since he had seen me in London, he said, he had suffered from illness, which had been his lot periodically for a considerable time.

"I am sure you are overworking,' I said. "What you need is rest. You are nervous. Take things more easily." "No, no, it is not that. Hard work never did harm to any one. Have you noticed my cough?" I had; at times it was violent.

"You don't fear that your lungs are affected, do you?" I asked.

"No, no, I 'm past the age for tuberculosis; and, then, I have been examined. My lungs are healthy."

"Then I see nothing to fear from the cough," I said, "and I think I know the reason for it: too many cigarettes. You smoke too much, just as I do. Quit or diminish your smoking, and I'm sure the cough will leave you."

"No, I'm sure you are wrong. Why, I did quit for two whole days, and I coughed just the same. There was not the slightest difference. And I could not work; I could not sit still. I was unable even to think properly. Constantly I paced up and down, my hand always going to my pocket and appearing with a cigarette and matches, which I put back again."

In vain I pointed out to him that a smoker's cough is not acquired in two days nor is it to be eliminated in so short a time.

He leaned forward, grasped my arm, his eyes round with amazement, and said in a voice of protest:

"My dear friend, I don't play at smoking; I 'm a serious man. What I do, I do thoroughly, or at least as well as I can. Is there any one who smokes without inhaling?"

I assured him I knew of such people by rumor only and not by experience, and abandoned my catechizing in favor of laughter.

I asked if his new novel had its setting in the South Seas.

"No," he replied. "Nearly every one thinks of me as a writer of the South Seas, but, do you know, I have never even been there. The novels that cause this impression were written of the Malay Archipelago. The story "Youth" was an actual experience and happened in that locality. The decks of our ship were blown up by an accumulation of coal-gas, and the fire smoldered for days before we made port. It was a most unearthly thing to see the deck deliberately rise in the air to the accompaniment of a dull roar. One of the sailors was SO frightened by it that he jumped overboard."

He talked of American writers, and had liberal praise for many of them. Mark Twain is one of his greatest idols. He spoke of him as a very great man possessed of a universal quality of mind.

"I like best 'Huckleberry Finn' and 'Roughing It.' When he chose to do his 'Joan of Arc' as an effort away from the field of humor, he again proved

"Oh, I don't count them. When one is finished, I light another."

"And do you inhale the smoke?"

tional sympathy for him because he started life as a laborer, and was later a steamboat pilot, while I began as an ordinary sailor. I was eighteen years

old before I heard the English language spoken. During a long illness I tried for the first time to write. My efforts were praised by some literary men who took an interest in me. I loved to write. I was fascinated at being able to do it. So I tried again with great enthusiasm, and when my first book was published it had good notices from the best of the critics. Huneker in America was good to me, and though my novels continued to have artistic success, a great many years passed before I made much money.

Henry James was his close friend and frequent guest. He spoke of James's work with great admiration and enthusiasm.

"James always said that an artist should never marry. I cannot agree with him. It is true that the responsibilities of matrimony are likely to be a serious handicap to creative work unless the artist is fortunate in his choice of a wife. If she is able to shield him from the details that would destroy his working time, he should be stronger with her love and sympathy than without it. The temperament of the person has much bearing on the case, too. James was doubtless better off as a bachelor. Yet he had a way with children, apparently. My youngest boy as a child hated to be touched by strangers. He had a mind of his own, and usually managed to have his way. I forbade his coming into my study when I was at work, which seemed to make being there the thing he most desired. He would come into the room in spite of my protests, step by step, with the most irresistible smile on his face, knowing that in two minutes at most he could conquer me. Then his prattle would make work impossible. James was with me on one

of these occasions, talking in his solemn, portentous way. The child stood looking at him, fascinated, and apparently listening attentively to everything that he said. James, with hardly a look at him, reached out slowly in an absent-minded way, took the boy by the arm, and deliberately drew him to his lap, talking solemnly all the while. Contrary to all precedent, there was no resistance. The little one sat without a sound or movement in spite of a cramped position, staring wonderingly into my friend's face, while James forgot the existence of the child, who did not stir until our conversation was ended, and we rose to leave the room."

Howells, too, is greatly admired by Mr. Conrad. I asked what he thought of Moore's summing up of the two men: "James came to Europe and read the Russians; Howells stayed at home and read James."

"I do not agree with that," he said; "the two are very different. It is as ridiculous to compare them as to try to compare an elephant and a cow."

He was greatly interested as the sketch progressed. I was working against time, and but little remained before the departure of my train. He asked that tea be prepared while I was giving the last touches to the sketch, and on its completion affixed to it his autograph. As we sat with our teacups he produced a large silver humidor in which were divisions containing different kinds of cigarettes.

"What is your whim to-day? Will you have a cigarette from America, or one from Mexico or Africa or Asia or Europe? They are all here. This is my international cigarette-box."

"Do you like the box?" Mrs. Conrad asked. I replied in the affirmative.