een good for some of us, perhaps, if that ill-starred
Armada hadn't come so entirely to grief. I'm fond of big,
tawny-black eyes.)

All this, so novel and so strange, was a perpetual feast for Lady
Caroline. And they bought nice, cheap, savory things on the way
home, to eke out the lunch from "la Cigogne."

In the afternoon Barty would take a solitary walk in the open
country, or along one of those endless straight _chaussees_, paved
in the middle, and bordered by equidistant poplars on either side,
and leading from town to town, and the monotonous perspective of
which is so desolating to heart and eye; backwards or forwards, it
is always the same, with a flat sameness of outlook to right and
left, and every 450 seconds the chime would boom and flounder
heavily by, with a dozen sharp railway whistles after it, like
swordfish after a whale, piercing it through and through.

Barty evidently had all this in his mind when he wrote the song of
the seminarist in "Gleams," beginning:

"Twas April, and the sky was clear,
An east wind blowing keenly;
The sun gave out but little cheer,
For all it shone serenely.
The wayside poplars, all arow,
For many a weary mile did throw
Down on the dusty flags below
Their shadows, picked out cleanly."
Etc., etc., etc.

(Isn't it just like Barty to begin a lyric that will probably last
as long as the English language with an innocent jingle worthy of a
school-boy?)

After dinner, in the evening, it was Lady Caroline's delight to read
aloud, while Barty smoked his cigarettes and inexpensive cigars--a
concession on her part to make him happy, and keep him as much with
her as she could; and she grew even to like the smell so much that
once or twice, when he went to Antwerp for a couple of days to stay
with Tescheles, she actually had to burn some of his tobacco on a
red-hot shovel, for the scent of it seemed to spell his name for her
and make his absence less complete.

Thus she read to him _Esmond_, _Hypatia_, _Never too Late to Mend_,
_Les Maitres Sonneurs_, _La Mare au Diable_, and other delightful
books, English and French, which were sent once a week from a
circulating library in Brussels. How they blessed thy name, good
Baron Tauchnitz!

"Oh, Aunt Caroline, if I could _only_ illustrate books! If I could
only illustrate _Esmond_ and draw a passable Beatrix coming down the
old staircase at Castlewood with her candle!"