as a man approaching fifty, who had not yet lost any of the power of
enjoyment or begun to feel the inroads of decay, at the very height of
life, and unconscious that the ground would shortly begin to slope
downwards under his feet; indeed, it showed no such indication as yet,
and probably would not do so for years. The broad plateau of middle age
lasts often till sixty, or even beyond. There was no reason to doubt
that for John Tatham it would last as long as for any man. His health
was perfect, and his habits those of a man whose self had never demanded
indulgences of the vulgar kind. He had given up with some regret, but
years before, his chambers in the Temple: that is, he retained them as
chambers, but lived in them no longer. He had a house in one of the
streets about Belgrave Square, one of those little bits of awkward,
three-cornered streets where there are some of the pleasantest houses
of a moderate kind in London; furnished from top to bottom, the stairs,
the comfortable quaint landings, the bits of corridor and passage,
nothing naked or neglected about it--no cold corner; but nothing
fantastic; not very much ornament, a few good pictures, a great deal
of highly-polished, old-fashioned dark mahogany, with a general flavour
of Sherraton and Chippendale: and abundance of books everywhere. John
was able to permit himself various little indulgences on which wives
are said to look with jealous eyes. He had a fancy for rare editions
(in which I sympathise) and also for bindings, which seems to me a
weakness--however, it was one which he indulged in moderation. He
possessed in his drawing-room (which was not very much used) a beautiful
old-fashioned harpsichord, and also he had belonging to him a fiddle
of value untold. I ought, of course, to say violin, or rather to
distinguish the instrument by its family name; I have no doubt it was a
Stradivarius. But there is an affectionate humour in the fiddle which
does not consist with fine titles. He had always been fond of music, but
even the Stradivarius did not beguile him, in the days of which I speak,
to play, nor perhaps was his performance worthy of it, though his taste
was said to be excellent. It will be perceived by all this that John
Tatham's life had many pleasures.

And I am not myself sorry for him because he was not married, as many
people will be. Perhaps it is a little doleful coming home, when there
is never anybody looking out for you, expecting you. But