The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (12.1897)

A Little Holiday

By Oswald Sickert

Roy had twice stayed with us in London during the vacation ;

but since our days at Cambridge most of his time had been
spent in Paris, and I had never been to his home till that spring.

I had eagerly looked forward to the visit, for not only should I
enjoy Roy’s company uninterruptedly for eight whole days, but I
should at last meet his sister. And looking forward with curiosity
and excitement to the sunny prospect, I had only seen on the
clear horizon one little cloud—a certain fear I had of Roy’s
uncle. This uncle had lived with them even before the father’s
death, and had since acted as guardian to the two children, for
their mother, his sister, was an invalid. He used to come up to
Cambridge to see Roy, so I had met him frequently. I took a
great fancy to him from the first, and he had my unbounded
respect; he was the ideal of steadfastness and honour and clear
judgment. But I always experienced in his presence the same
feeling—a feeling which no difference of age could explain. I
was before him a person of no weight, of no principles, a butterfly
character—he would have passed me on one side if I had not been
Roy’s friend. I felt just the same when I saw him after an
interval of three years, although in between he had warmly
praised my verses and had gone out of his way to write me from

time