y for the use of novelists.
Galbe, gonfle, goulu: parfum, peau, pervers, potele, pudeur: vertu,
volupte.

But he really must find that word. Curves curves...Those little valleys
had the lines of a cup moulded round a woman's breast; they seemed the
dinted imprints of some huge divine body that had rested on these hills.
Cumbrous locutions, these; but through them he seemed to be getting
nearer to what he wanted. Dinted, dimpled, wimpled--his mind wandered
down echoing corridors of assonance and alliteration ever further and
further from the point. He was enamoured with the beauty of words.

Becoming once more aware of the outer world, he found himself on the
crest of a descent. The road plunged down, steep and straight, into a
considerable valley. There, on the opposite slope, a little higher up
the valley, stood Crome, his destination. He put on his brakes; this
view of Crome was pleasant to linger over. The facade with its three
projecting towers rose precipitously from among the dark trees of the
garden. The house basked in full sunlight; the old brick rosily glowed.
How ripe and rich it was, how superbly mellow! And at the same time, how
austere! The hill was becoming steeper and steeper; he was gaining
speed in spite of his brakes. He loosed his grip of the levers, and in
a moment was rushing headlong down. Five minutes later he was passing
through the gate of the great courtyard. The front door stood hospitably
open. He left his bicycle leaning against the wall and walked in. He
would take them by surprise.

CHAPTER II.

He took nobody by surprise; there was nobody to take. All was quiet;
Denis wandered from room to empty room, looking with pleasure at the
familiar pictures and furniture, at all the little untidy signs of life
that lay scattered here and there. He was rather glad that they were
all out; it was amusing to wander through the house as though one
were exploring a dead, deserted Pompeii. What sort of life would the
excavator reconstruct from these remains; how would he people these
empty chambers? There was the long gallery, with its rows of respectable
and (though, of course, one couldn't publicly admit it) rather boring
Italian primitives, its Chinese sculptures, its unobtrusive, dateless
furniture. There was the panelled drawing-room, where the huge
chintz-covered arm-chairs stood, oases of comfort among the austere
flesh-mortifying antiques. There was the morning-room, with its pale
lemon