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He is romantic__omantic,_ he repeated. __nd that is very bad__ery bad. . . . Very good, too,_ he added. __ut is he?_ I queried.___ewiss,_ he said, and stood still holding up the candelabrum, but without looking at me. __vident! What is it that by inward pain makes him know himself? What is it that for you and me makes him__xist?___t that moment it was difficult to believe in Jim__ existence__tarting from a country parsonage, blurred by crowds of men as by clouds of dust, silenced by the clashing claims of life and death in a material world__ut his imperishable reality came to me with a convincing, with an irresistible force! I saw it vividly, as though in our progress through the lofty silent rooms amongst fleeting gleams of light and the sudden revelations of human figures stealing with flickering flames within unfathomable and pellucid depths, we had approached nearer to absolute Truth, which, like Beauty itself, floats elusive, obscure, half submerged, in the silent still waters of mystery. __erhaps he is,_ I admitted with a slight laugh, whose unexpectedly loud reverberation made me lower my voice directly; __ut I am sure you are._ With his head dropping on his breast and the light held high he began to walk again. __ell__ exist, too,_ he said.