him, were the clear
familiar colours of the world he knew; but yonder, on the hills, were
trees and spaces of another more heavenly tint. That soft blue light, if
he could reach it, must be the beginning of what his mind required.

He envied Mr. Poodle, whose cottage was on that very hillslope that rose
so imperceptibly into sky. One morning he ran and ran, in the lifting
day, but always the blue receded. Hot and unbuttoned, he came by the
curate's house, just as the latter emerged to pick up the morning paper.

"Where does the blue begin?" Gissing panted, trying hard to keep his
tongue from sliding out so wetly.

The curate looked a trifle disturbed. He feared that something
unpleasant had happened, and that his assistance might be required
before breakfast.

"It is going to be a warm day," he said politely, and stooped for the
newspaper, as a delicate hint.

"Where does--?" began Gissing, quivering; but at that moment, looking
round, he saw that it had hoaxed him again. Far away, on his own hill
the other side of the village, shone the evasive colour. As usual,
he had been too impetuous. He had not watched it while he ran; it had
circled round behind him. He resolved to be more methodical.

The curate gave him a blank to fill in, relative to baptizing the
children, and was relieved to see him hasten away.

But all this was some time ago. As he walked the meadow path, Gissing
suddenly realized that lately he had had little opportunity for pursuing
blue horizons. Since Fuji's departure every moment, from dawn to dusk,
was occupied. In three weeks he had had three different servants, but
none of them would stay. The place was too lonely, they said, and with
three puppies the work was too hard. The washing, particularly was a
horrid problem. Inexperienced as a parent, Gissing was probably too
proud: he wanted the children always to look clean and soigne. The last
cook had advertised herself as a General Houseworker, afraid of
nothing; but as soon as she saw the week's wash in the hamper (including
twenty-one grimy rompers), she telephoned to the station for a taxi.
Gissing wondered why it was that the working classes were not willing
to do one-half as much as he, who had been reared to indolent ease. Even
more, he was irritated by a suspicion of the ice-wagon driver. He could
not prove it, but he had an idea that this uncouth fellow obtained a
commission from the Airedales and Collies, who had large mansions in th