one moment deny. I do, however, ask
you to consider how great are its perils and hardships, its fatigues and
inconveniences. From all these evils I offer you instant refuge. I offer
you, Miss Dobson, a refuge more glorious and more augustly gilded
than you, in your airiest flights of fancy, can ever have hoped for or
imagined. I own about 340,000 acres. My town-residence is in St. James's
Square. Tankerton, of which you may have seen photographs, is the chief
of my country-seats. It is a Tudor house, set on the ridge of a valley.
The valley, its park, is halved by a stream so narrow that the deer leap
across. The gardens are estraded upon the slope. Round the house runs
a wide paven terrace. There are always two or three peacocks trailing
their sheathed feathers along the balustrade, and stepping how stiffly!
as though they had just been unharnessed from Juno's chariot. Two
flights of shallow steps lead down to the flowers and fountains. Oh,
the gardens are wonderful. There is a Jacobean garden of white roses.
Between the ends of two pleached alleys, under a dome of branches, is
a little lake, with a Triton of black marble, and with water-lilies.
Hither and thither under the archipelago of water-lilies, dart
gold-fish--tongues of flame in the dark water. There is also a long
strait alley of clipped yew. It ends in an alcove for a pagoda
of painted porcelain which the Prince Regent--peace be to his
ashes!--presented to my great-grandfather. There are many twisting
paths, and sudden aspects, and devious, fantastic arbours. Are you fond
of horses? In my stables of pine-wood and plated-silver seventy are
installed. Not all of them together could vie in power with one of the
meanest of my motor-cars."

*Pronounced as Tacton.

**Pronounced as Tavvle-Tacton.

"Oh, I never go in motors," said Zuleika. "They make one look like
nothing on earth, and like everybody else."

"I myself," said the Duke, "use them little for that very reason. Are
you interested in farming? At Tankerton there is a model farm which
would at any rate amuse you, with its heifers and hens and pigs that are
like so many big new toys. There is a tiny dairy, which is called 'Her
Grace's.' You could make, therein, real butter with your own hands, and
round it into little pats, and press every pat with a different device.
The boudoir that would be yours is a blue room. Four Watteaus hang in
it. In the dining-hall hang portraits of my forefathers--in pe