ything in it was of an extreme
solidity. Indeed, the substantial walls and solid wood-work were so
unusual in suburban construction, which was associated in Wyndham's mind
with jerry-building, that he could not help remarking thereon when he
and Mr. Robinson were left to their coffee and cigars. The old man was
greatly pleased at this piece of discernment and observation. He
explained that he had had the house built for him twenty years before,
and this solidity represented his dearest philosophy. He hated nothing
so much as a superficial appearance which affected to be superior to the
underlying reality. "Soundness and sincerity" had been his motto
throughout his life, and on that principle his prosperity had been
founded. Wyndham grew infected with this unmetaphysical philosophy. The
ground he had trodden these last years seemed hideously unstable to look
back upon: there was really a wonderful comfort in feeling himself here,
supported on so sure a flooring, surrounded by these strong walls, and
seated on this thickly-cut mahogany arm-chair that was framed to last
three generations. The entire furniture of the house was of the like
soundness--even the crimson couches of the drawing-room were of a
massive build, and the grand piano, like this great dining-room table,
had the fattest of legs, and was resonant of strength and durability.

And in tune with all this solidity was the solid prosperity of Mr.
Robinson himself: his banking account seemed an embodiment of his
life-principles, supporting all this substantiality on its imperturbable
back, like the fabled Buddhistic tortoise nonchalantly supporting the
world. Wyndham's own existence seemed feeble by contrast, ready to go
down before the merest puff of wind. He stretched himself luxuriously,
half incredulous, as if to assure himself it was all no vain imagining;
permitted Mr. Robinson to recharge his glass with port; and lighted
another of those fragrant unpurchasable cigars. It was so good to savour
to the full this sensation of prodigious security! Here one might repose
one's head: might hear the trump of doom ring out, and pity the rest of
the universe.

After all, was there not more than a grain of truth in Sadler's gospel?
In boyhood you could be adventurous; life stretched before you so
endlessly that you could afford to gamble with it. But, when the years
were racing by, you longed for a little peace, a little happiness. This
constant uncertainty of outloo