about that which will not do for me.  I have tried editor after editor, and have invariably had my articles returned.  I will venture to say—­and I do not think you will contradict me—­that they are all thorough, sound, and accurate pieces of work, far more reliable than much of the stuff which appears every day; all I want is just the personal touch with an editor or two; but, of course, if you will not help me, I must try elsewhere—­but I must confess that I am very much disappointed,” He looked drearily at me, leaning on his stick.  I do not think he had any idea where we were, nor had he seen any single object which we had passed; but at this moment he noticed a flower in the hedge, and looked tenderly at it.  “Ha! there is ailanthus vulgaris,” he said—­“very unusual.  Excuse my interrupting you, but botany is rather a passion of mine.  It may interest you to hear...” and I had a few minutes’ botany thrown in.  “But we must return to our muttons,” he said, after a short pause, with a convulsion of the jaw that was meant for a smile; and we did.  He went over the whole ground again—­and then suddenly came a human cri du coeur which gave me one of those fruitless pangs which are the saddest things in the world.  He was dusting the sleeve of his coat, and I could not help feeling with what unnecessary conscientiousness he was doing it.  He turned to me, “Do help me, if you can.  I really have done my best, but I can’t get any work to do.  I have not the position to which I may fairly say my abilities and diligence entitle me.  I don’t understand why it is—­I can’t see where I am to blame.”  Of course I promised to do what I could, and Gregory handed me a corresponding slip of paper to his own which he had prepared for me.

We drew near to the little wayside station where he was to catch a train.  It was a summer day of extraordinary loveliness.  The great green fen slept peacefully in the sun, and the low green hills beyond lay quivering in the haze.  Gregory, lost in bitter musings, in his careful threadbare clothes, rather unpleasantly hot, hopelessly bewildered as to his place in the universe, conscious of virtue, equipped with information, desiring neither pity nor affection, but only work and due recognition, was a sad blot upon nature.  The whole business of his creation and preservation seemed an ugly and a heartless one, and his redemption beyond the power of imagination.  The train came in, and he got wearily in, shook hands, and immersed himself in a book.  He said no more, made no sign, waved no hand of farewell.  He did not feel any sentimental emotion; he had come on business, and he went away on business.

Of course it was of no use.  I wrote a few letters, read Gregory’s manuscript, and had to take a course of Sherlock Holmes in order to obliterate the nauseous memory of its dulness.  Nothing came of it all, except a very offensive letter from Gregory about my ineffectiveness and general duplicity.