rves now
and again; for life at white heat has been embolismal since the death
of the gods. As to Warner, he who had written many poems, now devoted
himself to living one, and achieved a perfect success.

CHAPTER XXI

Hamilton House had been repaired during their absence, without and
within. It was not necessary to refurnish, for the fine old mansion
was set thick with mahogany four-posters, settles, chests, tables and
chairs--more stately than comfortable. They arrived without warning,
but the servants, under the merciless driving of Mr. Ogilvy, had been
on the alert for several days, and as the sloop was becalmed for two
hours not three miles from shore, until the lagging evening breeze
filled the sails, when Warner and Anne finally landed and were led in
triumph to their home by some twenty of their friends, every room of
the upper story was flooded with the light of wax candles set in long
polished globes, the crystal and silver of the wedding presents was on
the great mahogany dining-table laden with the plenty of the tropics,
muslin curtains fluttered in the evening wind, the pitch-pine floors
shone like glass, and flowers were on every stand and table.

There was a very long and very gay dinner, and many more guests came
during the evening. When the last of them had gone and Anne went to
her own pink room, the only luxurious room in the house, she felt
happier than even during the past enchanted weeks, for she was at home
and the home was her own.

She had never been permitted to interfere with the ancient and
admirable housekeeping at Warkworth Manor, but she discovered next
morning that the spirit of the housewife was in her, and was far
more exultant over her bunch of keys, her consultations with her
major-domo, her struggles with the most worthless servants on earth,
than she had ever been over her first doll or her first novel. The
routine into which the young couple immediately settled was unique to
both and had little of monotony in it. After their early walk Warner
spent the morning in his library, where he had a large case of books,
Hunsdon's wedding present, to consider. He resisted his friend's
proposition to write political pamphlets with the seriousness that
rises from the deepest humour, but he loved to read and ponder, and
his few hours of solitude were easily occupied with the lore of the
centuries. After siesta they rode and called at one or other of the
Great Houses, and every eveni