the obelisk in the garden.
As I toiled up the hill which leads to Putney Heath, I met a small boy, of whom I asked the way to Mr. George Newnes’s house. To my astonishment he did not know where it was. I gazed at him more in sorrow than in anger. “What! not know where Tit-Bits lives!” a smart lad standing by ejaculated, as he pointed out to me the right direction in which to go. “George Newnes! ’im wot writes Tit-Bits! wy I thought everyone knowed w’ere ’ee lived!” I thanked him, and wandered on half-a-mile or so until I reached the beautiful house which the “writer” of Tit-Bits built for himself some years ago. Here I was received by Mr. George Newnes with a welcome which left nothing to be desired in the way of hearty kindness. Mr. Newnes is a man of middle height, very good-looking, with auburn beard, and hair dashed with grey. Though exceedingly wealthy, he is not, as somebody has well expressed it, “beastly rich.” No feeling of the oppression of newly-acquired wealth flooded my soul as I walked about the pretty house and grounds in his company. He and his surroundings have the good taste not to obtrude themselves upon the casual visitor. The man is simplicity itself, and the most genial and cordial of hosts. I thoroughly enjoyed my visit, nor was it without infinite interest, for George Newnes is a companion always amusing, and with always something new and original to say. As we wandered through the beautiful grounds, some of which are reclaimed from the wild heath which stretches for miles round the house, he pointed out to me the curious obelisk, grey and time-worn, which still perpetuates the memory of the historic mansion once known as “Fireproof.” For it was here that George III. and Queen Charlotte once breakfasted in peace in the drawing room upstairs, whilst the dining-room below was purposely ignited to prove that the house was really fireproof. Upon one side of the house stand the stables, just beyond them a beautiful covered lawn-tennis court lighted by electricity and heated with hot water, in which play can go on by night as well as by day, in winter just as much as in summer. “We miss this tennis court dreadfully when we are in Devonshire,” said Mr. Newnes, as we quitted the beautiful hall for the house. “I am myself devoted to tennis and golfing, and, indeed, I sometimes think it is that that has helped me to get through so much work. Good players generally make good workers,” he added, with a laugh. “Now will you come and join our party at luncheon?” and as he spoke he led the way into a handsome dining-room. At luncheon the conversation dealt chiefly with sport and games, to my own great relief be it added, for the dweller in the tents of the literary world hears but little of the ordinary topics of conversation, and becomes suffocated, if he be not to the manner born, with the nauseating cant and self-sufficiency which is so typical of the literary world of to-day, and more especially typical of its younger members. But at George Newnes’s house you hear but little shop. We discussed golf and its rapidly increasing popularity, the newest “serve” at tennis, and some of the most remarkable cricket scores made during the past season.
mr. newnes.
mrs. newnes.
the billiard-room.
