CHAPTER I remember the whole beginning as a succession of flights and drops, a little

sea-saw of the right throbs and the wrong.

After rising in town to meet his appeal, I had at all events a couple of very bad days,

found myself doubtful again, felt indeed, sure I had made a mistake.

In this state of mind I spent the long hours of bumping, swinging coach that carried me

to the stopping place at which I was to be met by a vehicle from the house.

This convenience I was told had been ordered, and I found, toward the close of the June

afternoon, a commodious fly in waiting for me.

Driving at that hour on a lovely day through a country to which the summer sweetness seemed

off for me a friendly welcome.

My fortitude mounted a fresh, and as we turned into the avenue encountered a reprieve that

was probably but a proof of the point to which it had sunk.

I suppose I had expected, or had dreaded, something so melancholy that what greeted me was

a good surprise.

I remember, as a most pleasant impression, the broad, clear front, its open windows and

fresh curtains, and the pair of maids looking out.

I remember the lawn and the bright flowers and the crunch of my wheels on the gravel and

the clustered treetops over which the rook circled and cawed in the golden sky.

The scene had a greatness that made it a different affair from my own scant home, and there immediately

appeared at the door with a little girl in her hand, a civil person, zified by the mistress

or a distinguished visitor.

I had received in Harley Street a narrower notion of the place, and that, as I recalled

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