vm FOREWORD 



side arms, where the path vanishes in a spicy tangle 

 of cinnamon rose — gone back to their love making of 

 course. 



So from them at last I parted company, uncon- 

 sciously I must confess — for the interest in learning 

 what they would not be persuaded to tell was very 

 absorbing — and not indeed, until I had finished my 

 task were they missed! Not until then did I know 

 that here was not what I had expected to do, here was 

 not what it had seemed must inevitably be done, in 

 writing the book of my dream. 



They are not here: no lovely ladies nor courtly 

 cavaliers cast so much as one quick glance out from 

 behind a single page as it is turned. For here all 

 is sober reality and no dream; here is the truth about 

 old gardens, not select glimpses of a path, or a gate- 

 way, or a time-stained dial, hung like pictures upon 

 the silver cord of romance. Hence there is here a cer- 

 tain measure of disillusion, perhaps, for some. Be 

 warned, therefore, such of you as cherish the shadow 

 and reject the substance. Put down the book; it is 

 not the thing you are seeking. 



Yet let justification be mine; for I at the verj' 

 first invited all those whom you expected to find here, 

 to be present — indeed, I urged them with all the elo- 

 quence at my command. But they knew better than 

 I the places where they might linger; and they knew. 



