numbness of
despair. We had made "scoops" at times and celebrated them with joyous
junketings. Once we had dined at Delmonico's, a meal of which the memory
is still an absurd chaos. We had, moreover, confronted America with a
blank wall of unyielding British prejudice. We had entrenched ourselves
behind our conception of the thing to do and stupidly refused to do
anything else. And we had been beaten to our knees. For it meant
eventually either submission or flight. And we never had any intention
of flight. We had fixed it firmly in our minds that we would return
triumphant to England, some day as yet far off. We were aliens, yes; but
we meant to win through at last, to make our dream come true; our dream
of a cottage, with honeysuckle and roses, "far from the madding crowd."

And so we realized at length that, after all, the country was there
before us; that they had not asked us to come; that we might as well do
things the way they wanted. All this was sound physic for us. It made
us, in the true sense of the word, cosmopolitan, made us broad in
culture and stimulated that deep human sympathy and understanding which
lay at the root of that impatience with which we awaited the story of
our neighbour.

I was typing a letter about three o'clock when I heard Mac's quick step
on the stairs and the opening of the door. It is his custom to take
advantage of his view of the path from the studio window to forestall
the postman, and I took no further notice until I heard the hum of
conversation. And so I was the last to appear.

He was standing in the middle of our room, his back to me, his Derby hat
in his hand, looking curiously about the walls. I saw his glance held
for a moment by the old English clock with its swinging pendulum and
weights. It passed on to the chimney-piece loaded with antique silver,
bizarre brasses, candle-snuffers and snuff-boxes. It moved over to the
bust of Bill that Von Roon had given her when she was married, a
miracle of cunningly-arranged shadows. It fell away from water colour
and etching without hint of ulterior interest, and came to rest upon the
book-shelves. There was more than politeness in his glance at the books,
more than mere curiosity. There was, plainly enough, connoisseurship. In
the flicker of an eyelid you can tell it. He turned to meet me as I
entered the room.

"I'm glad you've come," I said, shaking hands. His clasp was firm,
almost athletic. "We tea at four, but I don't thin