The question now presented itself: where should he pitch his tent? Such work as he had in mind must be finished in or near London. His half-completed novel, Shall the Strong Retain the Spoil? dealt with Londoners; the scene of it was laid in London. Finally, after some search, he found a camping-ground in a small pine wood crowning a great ridge which overlooked the Thames Valley and the Surrey heaths.
He discovered this spot, which suited him exactly, by accident. Just outside Weybridge he punctured the tyre of his bicycle. While repairing it, he smelled the balsamic fragrance of some pines to his right, and Longfellow's lines came into his mind:—
"Stood the groves of singling pine trees,
Green in summer, white in winter,
Ever sighing, ever singing."
The west wind was blowing, and from the pine-tops floated a lullaby, soothing and seductive. Mark sat down, listening to this alluring song, absorbing the scents and sounds. Presently he climbed a rough fence and wandered down one of the many aisles. The carpet beneath his feet was soft as velvet pile, a carpet woven by the years out of the myriad leaves dropping unseen and unheard. Passing through the wood, he saw the Thames Valley. A silvery mist was rising out of it. On each side of the river were green meadows, bordered by poplars and willows. The tower of a church could be seen amongst a group of fine elms. This was such a spot as he had hoped to find. Regaining the high-road, he pushed his bicycle to the top of the hill and stopped opposite a pretty cottage standing in a garden gay with old-fashioned flowers. Above the gate was a sign: Board and Lodging. Mark stared for a moment at the sign, smiling, because he had expected to find it there. If the tiny wood belonged to the owner of the cottage, the matter was clinched.
He left his bicycle against the palings and walked through the garden and up to the door. He had time to note that the cottage was built of brick. Some of the bricks had a vitreous surface, which caught the light and suffused a radiance over the other bricks. The general effect was ripe, mellow, rosy. The sills and casings of the lattice windows were painted white; the door was a bright apple-green, with a shining brass handle, bell, and knocker. The cottage was heavily thatched.
In answer to Mark's ring and knock the door was opened by a girl, whom Mark guessed to be a daughter of the house, not a servant in any sense, save the one that she served. Mark lifted his cap.
"Is that wood yours?" he asked.
The girl seemed amused, but she said: "Oh, yes; everything inside the paling belongs to mother."
"And you have rooms to let?"
The girl asked him to come in and see them, but she added doubtfully: "I don't think they'll suit you."