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I love a
couple of hours with a child when it is thoroughly happy and on
its best behaviour. And the enjoyment is enhanced by the feeling
of utter thankfulness that he is not my child, but somebody
else's.
In the evening I read and meditated on the happiness of my lot.
The years of school drudgery have already lost their sharp edge
of remembered definition, and sometimes I wonder whether it is I
who lived through them. I had not a care in the world, not a
want that I could not gratify. I thought of Judith. I thought
of Sebastian Pasquale. I amused myself by seeking a Renaissance
type of which he must be the reincarnation. I fixed upon young
Olgiati, one of the assassins of Gian Galeazzo Sforza. Of the
many hundreds of British youths who passed before my eyes during
my slavery, he is the only one who has sought me out in his
manhood. And strange to say we had only a few months together,
during my first year's apprenticeship to the dismal craft, he
being in the sixth form, and but three or four years younger than
I.


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