Mine now must be another’s soon,
I know not whose, when I am gone;
An earthly house is bound to none.”
A glass door at the back of the hall opened upon an unexpectedly large garden, gently sloping to the sluggish river; here there were long gravel walks—worn bare by the professor’s pacing—bordered with box and old standard roses. Here was also a notable mulberry tree, several rustic seats, and a sundial on which was inscribed, “Time will tell.”
That evening a full white moon illuminated the land, and after dinner Ronnie and I effected our escape, and strolled to and fro arm in arm along the professor’s pet walk; this would be our last hour together.
“I cannot stand that slovenly old bore,” said Ronnie. “Did you notice the ink on his fingers and the crumbs in his beard? I don’t know which is the worst—his drivelling talk or his appearance. I wonder he hasn’t driven you mad long ago. I’ve only been here two days, and already my reason is tottering. Does he never stop talking?”
“Sometimes,” I replied, “when he is not pleased and sulks.”
“Is it really true that he writes plays?”
“Yes, for his own entertainment. They are never accepted. He spends lots of money on dramatic agents, typewriting, and so on, and, as a great favour, he generally reads the plays to me.”
“You long-suffering martyr! I should certainly kick at that.”