I think I will go back to Milan. I am afraid I didn't do justice to Luini.«
    »Poor Luini!« said Newman.
    »I mean that I am afraid I over-estimated him. I don't think that he is a
painter of the first rank.«
    »Luini?« Newman exclaimed; »why, he's enchanting - he's magnificent! There
is something in his genius that is like a beautiful woman. It gives one the same
feeling.«
    Mr. Babcock frowned and winced. And it must be added that this was, for
Newman, an unusually metaphysical flight; but in passing through Milan he had
taken a great fancy to the painter. »There you are again!« said Mr. Babcock.
»Yes, we had better separate.« And on the morrow he retraced his steps and
proceeded to tone down his impressions of the great Lombard artist.
    A few days afterwards Newman received a note from his late companion which
ran as follows:
 
        »My dear Mr. Newman, - I am afraid that my conduct at Venice, a week
        ago, seemed to you strange and ungrateful, and I wish to explain my
        position, which, as I said at the time, I do not think you appreciate. I
        had long had it on my mind to propose that we should part company, and
        this step was not really so abrupt as it seemed. In the first place, you
        know, I am travelling in Europe on funds supplied by my congregation,
        who kindly offered me a vacation and an opportunity to enrich my mind
        with the treasures of nature and art in the Old World. I feel,
        therefore, as if I ought to use my time to the very best advantage. I
        have a high sense of responsibility. You appear to care only for the
        pleasure of the hour, and you give yourself up to it with a violence
        which I confess I am not able to emulate. I feel as if I must arrive at
        some conclusion and fix my belief on certain points. Art and life seem
        to me intensely serious things, and in our travels in Europe we should
        especially remember the immense seriousness of Art. You seem to hold
        that if a thing amuses you for the moment, that is all you need ask for
        it; and your relish for mere amusement is also much higher than mine.
        You put, moreover, a kind of reckless confidence into your pleasure
        which at times, I confess, has seemed to me - shall I say it? - almost
        cynical. Your way at any
