viii 
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 very 
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, 
