Instinctively Maitland Tait bared his head as we crossed the threshold.
"Shall we try to find a way through here into the gardens?" he asked.
CHAPTER XVII
HOUSE OF A HUNDRED DREAMS
The shadows inside the roofless old abbey were warm and friendly. The sunlight gleamed against the tombs with a cheer which always falls over very old grief spots.
"This quietude—this sense of all rightness—makes you feel that nothing really matters, doesn't it?" I asked, looking around with a sort of awed delight as we paused to read one or two inscriptions—voluminous in length and medieval in spelling.
The man at my side was less awed.
"Shall we go on to the gardens, then?" he asked. "You'll not think so little of temporal pleasures there, perhaps."
"But why?"
"Well, because these gardens are usually filled with suggestions of living joys—for one thing. There are millions of forget-me-nots, which always give a cheering aspect to the landscape—and there are frequently the flowers mentioned in Shakespeare's plays."