“No; but what about outside exercise?”
“Exercise!” repeated the professor; “the world is crazy on that subject. I was brought up to a sedentary life; even at school I never went in for games, but was always keen on brain work. For years I was Lecturer and Professor of Classics and English Literature. Now I have retired my time is my own. I am enjoying the luxury of leisure, and I don’t mind telling you that in my lighter mood I write plays.”
“Plays!” echoed Ronnie, staring at the professor with blank incredulity. “By George, do you?”
“Yes, I have one now, a four-act comedy, under consideration at the Metropolitan Theatre. Just at present I am hard at work on the history of Slacklands and our local folk-lore.”
The mere mention of the subject loosened the professor’s tongue, and all the way home—and almost without drawing breath—he held forth on this topic in a full, monotonous voice, and with a fierce determination that would brook no interruption. Ronnie, poor victim, was helpless, so to speak, benumbed, by such an unusual experience; and I could not help smiling to myself as I glanced at his face of furious boredom. Our arrival at the village of Beke put an end to the lecture. The professor could not well continue declaiming and ranting in public—as was his custom in his own garden—and the sight of the first cottage was the signal for our release. Beke, a dreary old village, which had seen better days, consisted of one long, clean street, lined with irregular red-roofed houses, some of a great age. Half-way up the thoroughfare stood the church, a notable edifice, with flying buttresses, surrounded by the tombstones of its dead parishioners. Facing the church was the “Beetle Inn,” a crooked black-and-white hostelry, which kept the only fly in the country; farther on, the Parsonage and “The Roost” confronted one another; the latter, a trim, red, Georgian residence, was approached by a brick path across a small enclosure, at present gay with a multitude of pink and lilac phlox.
Outwardly “The Roost” was insignificant, within both roomy and comfortable. The walls were wainscoted, the fireplaces of generous space. The doors of the principal rooms were of rich South American mahogany, and most of the furniture was quaint and old-fashioned: in former days “The Roost” had been the abode of taste and leisure. Now, alas! times were sadly changed.
The professor had ample leisure but no taste; his niece had a cultivated taste but no leisure—all her spare hours were dedicated to the parson and the parish.
Undoubtedly these changes had been anticipated, for a deeply cut carving on a panel in the passage said:
“All terrene things by turns we see
Become another’s property.