--disproportionate, ludicrous, but quite
real. I recalled the words of a woman who had been through many seasons.
"I want," she said to me earnestly, "to be asked to everything and to go
to nothing."

And then the blessed sentence of reprieve came over the telephone. Never
before had I known what a lovely word chicken-pox is. Postponed is
another beautiful word; the long "o" sounds are like the coo of a dove.
My more important nerves that had been revolving rapidly like large hot
corkscrews began to shrink, to slow, and to cool.

Later, when it was dark, I went out into the garden. Lighted windows
patterned themselves on the lawn, and half-way across it a warm wave of
perfume met me from the white stars of the tobacco plants. The scents of
flowers please me. Lavender and rosemary, lemon verbena and musk, rose
and carnation--I have them all. But for scents in bottles or sachets,
the chemist's products, I have only hatred and contempt. The bottled
perfume is like mechanical music; the freshness and life have departed
from it.

Even in the daytime but little sound of traffic reaches my garden, and
at night there are such long stretches of precious silence that one
seems to be far from London. As one grows older one values silence
more--maybe a gentle providence, that in the end the great silence may
not be unwelcome. The years change in so many things our sense of value.
Property loses much of its attraction when one begins to think for how
short a time one may hold it. This is consolatory if one be poor. I
cannot own this scrap of London garden, but what matter? I may use it as
if it were my own in return for--well, for so many stories a year. The
transaction seems more estimable when the medium of exchange is not
mentioned.

I sat and smoked, and drank the silence "like some sharp, strengthening
wine". The great trees before me, motionless in the still air, were a
flat dark grey against a sky a little paler. Below, where in the
sunlight would be a riot of colour, were masses of velvety black out of
which only the white flowers spoke. The tall white hollyhock would be a
patient sentinel all night while its dark sister slept invisible. There
is peace in the gardens of the country--gardens far richer and more
beautiful than mine--but here the peace seemed deeper because of the
near contrast. Not far away the useful deadly motor-bus would be busy
for hours yet. Theatres would be full, and Fleet Street would be
strenuous