I am ashamed to confess that I was bored, though I trust to Heaven I did not show it; I had come back from my ride brimming over with ideas, and was in the condition of a person who is holding his breath, dying to blow it all out.  Cooper said that he had heard that I was in the neighbourhood, and he had accordingly come over, a considerable distance, to see me.  He is in business, and appears to be prospering.  We had tea, and there was a good deal to talk about; but Cooper showed no signs of moving, and said at last that he thought he would stay and see Bradby—­perhaps dine with us.  So we walked about the garden, and I gradually became aware, with regret and misery, that I was in the presence of a bore.  Yes, James Cooper is a bore!  He had a great deal to say, mostly on subjects with which I was not acquainted.  He has become a botanist, and seemed full to the brim of uninteresting information.  He stayed till Bradby came, he dined, he talked.  At last he decided he must go; but he talked in the hall, he talked in the porch.  He pressed us to come over and see him, and it was evidently a great pleasure to him to meet us again.  Since his visit I have been pondering deeply.  What is one’s duty in these matters?  How far ought loyalty to old friends to go?  I confess that I am somewhat vexed and dissatisfied with myself for not being more simply pleased to see an old comrade—­actae non alio rege puertiae, and all that.  But what if the old comrade is a bore?  What are the claims of friendship on busy men?  I have a good many old friends in all parts of England—­ought I to use my holidays in touring about to see them?  I am inclined to think that I am not bound to do so.  But suppose that Cooper goes away, and says to another friend that I am a man who forgets old ties; that he took some trouble to see me, and found me absorbed, and not particularly glad to see him?  I hope, indeed, that this was not his impression; but boredom is a subtle thing, and it is difficult to keep it out of one’s manner, however religiously one tries to be cheerful.  Well, if he does feel thus, is he right and am I wrong?  His whole life lies on different lines to my own, and though we had much in common in the old pleasant days, we have not much in common now.  It is quite possible that he thinks I am a bore; and it is even possible that he is right there too.  But, que faire? que penser?  I can honestly say that if Cooper wanted my help, my advice, my sympathy, I would give it him without grudging.  But is it a part of loyalty that I must desire to see him, and even to be bored by him?  I am inclined to think that if I had a simpler, more affectionate nature, I should probably not be bored, but that in my gladness at the sight of an old friend and the reviving of old memories, the idea of criticism would die a natural death.

What I have suffered from all my life is making friends too easily.  It is so painful to me being with a person who seems to be dull, that I have always instinctively tried to be interested in, and to interest my companion.  The result has been—­I am making a very barefaced confession—­that I have been often supposed to be more friendly than I really am, and to allow a certain claim of loyalty to be established which I could not sincerely sustain.—­Ever yours,