A telegram had told me to come to a town ten miles from the house, so I was saved the crawling train to the local station, and traveled down by an express.  As soon as we left London the fog cleared off, and an autumn sun, though without heat in it, painted the landscape with golden browns and yellows.  My spirits rose as I lay back in the luxurious motor and sped between the woods and hedges.  Oddly enough, my anxiety of overnight had disappeared.  It was due, no doubt, to that exaggeration of detail which reflection in loneliness brings.  Frances and I had not been separated for over a year, and her letters from The Towers told so little.  It had seemed unnatural to be deprived of those intimate particulars of mood and feeling I was accustomed to.  We had such confidence in one another, and our affection was so deep.  Though she was but five years younger than myself, I regarded her as a child.  My attitude was fatherly.

In return, she certainly mothered me with a solicitude that never cloyed.  I felt no desire to marry while she was still alive.  She painted in watercolors with a reasonable success, and kept house for me; I wrote, reviewed books and lectured on aesthetics; we were a humdrum couple of quasi-artists, well satisfied with life, and all I feared for her was that she might become a suffragette or be taken captive by one of these wild theories that caught her imagination sometimes, and that Mabel, for one, had fostered.  As for myself, no doubt she deemed me a trifle solid or stolid—­I forget which word she preferred—­but on the whole there was just sufficient difference of opinion to make intercourse suggestive without monotony, and certainly without quarrelling.

Drawing in deep draughts of the stinging autumn air, I felt happy and exhilarated.  It was like going for a holiday, with comfort at the end of the journey instead of bargaining for centimes.

But my heart sank noticeably the moment the house came into view.  The long drive, lined with hostile monkey trees and formal wellingtonias that were solemn and sedate, was mere extension of the miniature approach to a thousand semidetached suburban “residences”; and the appearance of The Towers, as we turned the corner with a rush, suggested a commonplace climax to a story that had begun interestingly, almost thrillingly.  A villa had escaped from the shadow of the Crystal Palace, thumped its way down by night, grown suddenly monstrous in a shower of rich rain, and settled itself insolently to stay.  Ivy climbed about the opulent red-brick walls, but climbed neatly and with disfiguring effect, sham as on a prison or—­the simile made me smile—­an orphan asylum.  There was no hint of the comely roughness of untidy ivy on a ruin.  Clipped, trained, and precise it was, as on a brand-new protestant church.  I swear there was not a bird’s nest nor a single earwig in it anywhere.  About the porch it was particularly thick, smothering a seventeenth-century lamp with