The Happy Garden 



I would not for the world destroy Jane's illusion. 

 But I know something of the stage, and I know 

 that it was not the actress that was so rare so 

 much as the woman ; and it was the woman that 

 was, and is, so treasured. 



When Jane has recovered from the flutter of 

 her vicarious acquaintance with the illustrious and 

 great, I take her farther on her zig-zag pilgrimage 

 through the drawing-room. I insist that she shall 

 admire the twelve dancing Dresden children bought 

 at Aix-les-Bains, because they were so like Isadora 

 Duncan's entrancing babes ; and the carved marble 

 lamp that came from Florence out of the amazing 

 shop on the Lung 'Arno, into which you plunge out 

 of the brilliant Florentine light into a dim region 

 where ages, and centuries, and whole worlds whirl 

 round you, presenting you with relics of Napoleon, 

 and Louis XIV., and Lorenzo the Magnificent, and 

 various Popes, and Catherine of Russia, and modern 

 Birmingham. In the dim light gems wink and 

 shimmer ; men, and clogs, and stags, and horses 

 run stiffly across old tapestries, and ivory beasts 

 grimace and whisper of the east ; and there are 

 swords, and guns, and arrows, and medals and 

 pagodas. . . . And it is all fascinating. . . . And 

 when you long to walk back into your own life 

 for a moment or two, out you step into a street 



3 2 



