The house itself was full of low, pleasant rooms, looking out on to a wide verandah.  It was almost austerely furnished, and the life was simple and serene.  We used to go for vague walks on the moor or by the sea, and sometimes took long driving and walking expeditions among the hills.  It was a rainy region, and we were often confined to the house, except for a brisk walk in the soft rain.  The climate never suited me; I was always languid in body there, greedy of sleep and food.  There was no great brilliance of talk, only a quiet ease of communication such as takes place among people of the same interests.  I was ill there, more than once, and often anxious and perplexed.  And yet, for all that, my memory persists in investing it all with a singular radiance, and tells me over and over again that I was never so happy in any place in my life.  I must say that my friend was an ideal host, quiet, benevolent, anxious that people should enjoy themselves in their own way, and yet with a genial firmness of administration which is the greatest of all luxuries if it co-exists with much liberty.  He was not a great talker, though he occasionally uttered a witty epigram, often of a somewhat caustic kind; but the air of serene benevolence with which he used to preside always set people at their ease.  There was, too, another friend, who was there less often, but who shared the expense of the house, who was a singularly charming and stimulating talker, full of acute observation and emotional appreciation of character.  The combination of the two was perfection.

It is pleasant to recollect the long, vague summer days there, the mornings spent in reading in the verandah, the afternoons in a quiet ramble; not less delightful were the short winter days, when the twilight set in early, and the house was warm and softly lit.  One agreeable rule was that after dinner anyone who felt inclined should read rather than talk; and we have often sate in an amiable silence, with the fire rustling in the grate, and the leaves of books being softly turned.  The charm was the absence of constraint, and the feeling that one could say exactly what came into one’s mind without any danger of being misunderstood.  But for all that I cannot quite explain the golden content that seems in retrospect to have overspread the whole house.  We were often frankly critical.  We did not spare each other’s weaknesses; but no resentment, no dissatisfaction, no strife seems to me ever to have clouded the sunny atmosphere.

It all came to an end some years ago; circumstances made it necessary for my friends to give up the house; and one of the most beautiful instances of the spirit of the place was on the occasion of our last visit.  We knew that the good days were over, and that our lives could never be quite so pleasantly united again; but the place held us under its spell; and I remember as I drove away through the woods, in a soft moist dawn, I felt nothing but a deep and uncomplaining gratitude