"I'll take them to Colmere Abbey—her old home," I explained. "To me the place has always been a house of dreams! She describes portions of the gardens in her letters—tells him of new flower-beds made, of new walls built—of the sun-dial. I have always wanted to go there, and some day I shall bundle all these letters up and pack them in the bottom of a steamer trunk—to have a big bonfire with them on the very same hearth where she burned his."
CHAPTER X
IN THE FIRELIGHT
Again there was a silence, but it was not the kind of silence that gives consent. On the other hand his look of severity was positively discouraging.
"If I may inquire, what do you know about this place—this Colmere Abbey?" he finally asked. "I mean, do you know anything of it in this century—whether it's still standing or not—or anything at all save what your imagination pictures?"
It was a rather lawyer-like query, and I shook my head, feeling somewhat nonplused.
"No—nothing!"
"Then, if you should go to England, how would you set about finding out?"
"Oh, that wouldn't be so bad. In fact, I believe it would be a unique experience to go journeying to a spot with nothing more recent than a Washington Irving sketch as guide-book."
He looked at me half pityingly.
"You might be disappointed," he said gently. "For my part, I have never taken up a moment's time mooning about people's ancestral estates—I've had too much real work to do—but I happen to know that residents often fight shy of tourists."