PORTRAIT OF ROBERT HUNTER 67 duties like a chief part of his existence; and I remember it as the only occasion on which he ever soiled his lips with slang—a thing he loathed. We were both Roberts; and as we took our places at table, he addressed me with a twinkle : ' We are just what you would call two bob/ He offered me port, I remember, as the proper milk of youth; spoke of' twenty-shilling notesJ; and throughout the meal was full of old-world pleasantry and quaintness, like an ancient boy on a holiday, But what I recall chiefly was his confession that he had never read Othello to an end. Shakespeare was his continual study. He loved nothing better than to display his knowledge and memory by adducing parallel passages from Shakespeare, passages where the same word was employed, or the same idea differently treated. But Othello had beaten him. 'That noble gentleman and that noble lady—h'm—too painful for me/ The same night the hoardings were covered with posters, 'Burlesque of Othello' and the contrast blazed up in my mind like a bonfire. An unfor- gettable look it gave me into that kind man's soul His acquaintance was indeed a liberal and pious education. All the humanities were taught in that bare dining-room beside his gouty footstool. He was a piece of good advice; he was himself the instance that pointed and adorned his various talk. Nor could a young man have found else- where a place so set apart from envy, fear, discontent, or any of the passions that debase; a life so honest and composed; a soul like an ancient violin, so subdued to harmony, responding to a touch in music—as in that dining-room, with Mr. Hunter chatting at the eleventh hour, under the shadow of eternity, fearless and gentle.