I suspect I am rather a disappointing person, for every now and then
there is a fuss and I am to meet some one who would very much like to
make my acquaintance, or some one writes me a letter and says he has long
admired my books, and may he, etc.? Of course I say “Yes,” but
experience has taught me that it always ends in turning some one who was
more or less inclined to run me into one who considers he has a grievance
against me for not being a very different kind of person from what I am.
These people however (and this happens on an average once or twice a
year) do not come solely to see me, they generally tell me all about
themselves and the impression is left upon me that they have really come
in order to be praised. I am as civil to them as I know how to be but
enthusiastic I never am, for they have never any of them been nice
people, and it is my want of enthusiasm for themselves as much as
anything else which disappoints them. They seldom come again. Mr.
Alfred Tylor was the only acquaintance I have ever made through being
sent for to be looked at, or letting some one come to look at me, who
turned out a valuable ally; but then he sent for me through mutual
friends in the usual way.