the heat and
turmoil and dirt of London; from Frank Escott and his family; from
stinking, steamy restaurants; from the high flights of stairs, and
the prostitution of the Temple. And like butterflies above two
flowers, his thoughts hovered in uncertain desire between the
sanctity of a honeymoon with Lily Young in a fair enchanted pavilion
on a terrace by the sea, near, but not too near, white villas, in a
place as fairylike as a town etched by Whistler, and some months of
pensive and abstracted life, full to overflowing with the joy and
eagerness of incessant cerebration; a summer spent in a quiet
country-side, full of field-paths, and hedge-rows, and shadowy
woodland lanes--rich with red gables, surprises of woodbine and great
sunflowers--where he would walk meditatively in the sunsetting,
seeing the village lads and lassies pass, interested in their homely
life, so resting his brain after the day's labour; then in his study
he would find the candles already lighted, the kettle singing, his
books and his manuscripts ready for three excellent hours; upon his
face the night would breathe the rustling of leaves and the rich
odour of the stocks and tall lilies, until he closed the window at
midnight, casting one long sad and regretful look upon the gold
mysteries of the heavens.

So his reverie ran, interrupted by the conversation in the next room.
He heard his name mentioned frequently. The situation was
embarrassing, for he could not open a door without being heard. At
last he tramped boldly out, slamming the doors after him, leaving a
note for Frank on the table in the passage. It ran as follows--"I am
leaving town in a few days. I shall remove my things probably on
Monday. Much obliged to you for your hospitality; and now, good-bye."
"That will look," he thought, "as if I had not overheard his remarks.
How glad I shall be to get away! Oh, for new scenes, new faces! 'How
pleasant it is to have money!--heigh-ho!--how pleasant it is to have
money!' Whither shall I go? Whither? To Italy, and write my poem? To
Paris or Norway? I feel as if I should never care to see this filthy
Temple again." Even the old dining-hall, with its flights of steps
and balustrades, seemed to have lost all accent of romance; but he
stayed to watch the long flight of the pigeons as they came on
straightened wings from the gables. "What familiar birds they are!
Nothing is so like a woman as a pigeon; perhaps that's the reason
Norton does not lik