AN ADVENTURER 63 



land, but now all gone, save this one (how lovely its 

 fallen leaves looked in the as yet untrodden streets in 

 autumn mornings, lying flat and moistly golden under the 

 fog!); the balsam growing through the railings; the dark 

 yew tree that looked among bright lilac and laburnum 

 like a negro among the women in the Arabian Nights; 

 the pathway through the churchyard, in the days before 

 they had to rail it in to preserve the decent turf in vain, 

 for it was now littered with newspapers and tram-tickets 



among the tombs of Esquire, Esquire, for they 



were all esquires. He regretted the houses and gardens, 

 but less than their people, the men and women of some 

 ease and state, of speech whose kindliness was thrice kind 

 through its careful dignity, so he thought. And then the 

 children, there were no such children now; and the young 

 men and women, the men a little alarming, the women 

 strong and lovely and gentle enough to supply him with 

 incarnations at once of all those whom he read of in the 

 novels of Scott. They had gone long ago, except those 

 who survived vaguely in the novels. He remembered 

 their houses better, for it was not until after some years 

 that they were pulled down, their orchards grubbed up, 

 and their rich mould carried away in sacks to the trumpery 

 villas round about dragged along the road and spilt in 

 a long black trail. It was wonderful dark mould, and 

 the thought of the apples, the plums, the nectarines, the 

 roses which had grown out of it made him furious when 

 it was taken to their gardens by people who would be 

 gone in a year or less, and would grow in it nothing but 

 nasturtiums and sunflowers. 



There followed a period when, the old attitudes, the 



