a contrast that was quite horrible.  Extensive glass-houses spread away on the farther side of the house; the numerous towers to which the building owed its name seemed made to hold school bells; and the windowsills, thick with potted flowers, made me think of the desolate suburbs of Brighton or Bexhill.  In a commanding position upon the crest of a hill, it overlooked miles of undulating, wooded country southwards to the Downs, but behind it, to the north, thick banks of ilex, holly, and privet protected it from the cleaner and more stimulating winds.  Hence, though highly placed, it was shut in.  Three years had passed since I last set eyes upon, it, but the unsightly memory I had retained was justified by the reality.  The place was deplorable.

It is my habit to express my opinions audibly sometimes, when impressions are strong enough to warrant it; but now I only sighed “Oh, dear,” as I extricated my legs from many rugs and went into the house.  A tall parlor-maid, with the bearing of a grenadier, received me, and standing behind her was Mrs. Marsh, the housekeeper, whom I remembered because her untidy back hair had suggested to me that it had been burnt.  I went at once to my room, my hostess already dressing for dinner, but Frances came in to see me just as I was struggling with my black tie that had got tangled like a bootlace.  She fastened it for me in a neat, effective bow, and while I held my chin up for the operation, staring blankly at the ceiling, the impression came—­I wondered, was it her touch that caused it?—­that something in her trembled.  Shrinking perhaps is the truer word.  Nothing in her face or manner betrayed it, nor in her pleasant, easy talk while she tidied my things and scolded my slovenly packing, as her habit was, questioning me about the servants at the flat.  The blouses, though right, were crumpled, and my scolding was deserved.  There was no impatience even.  Yet somehow or other the suggestion of a shrinking reserve and holding back reached my mind.  She had been lonely, of course, but it was more than that; she was glad that I had come, yet for some reason unstated she could have wished that I had stayed away.  We discussed the news that had accumulated during our brief separation, and in doing so the impression, at best exceedingly slight, was forgotten.  My chamber was large and beautifully furnished; the hall and dining room of our flat would have gone into it with a good remainder; yet it was not a place I could settle down in for work.  It conveyed the idea of impermanence, making me feel transient as in a hotel bedroom.  This, of course, was the fact.  But some rooms convey a settled, lasting hospitality even in a hotel; this one did not; and as I was accustomed to work in the room I slept in, at least when visiting, a slight frown must have crept between my eyes.

“Mabel has fitted a work-room for you just out of the library,” said the clairvoyant Frances.

“No one will disturb you there, and you’ll have fifteen thousand books all catalogued within easy reach.  There’s a private staircase too.  You can breakfast in your room and slip down in your dressing gown if you want to.”  She laughed.  My spirits took a turn upwards as absurdly as they had gone down.