if he isn't, bring them back. I'm
going to Torquay by that eleven-thirty express--isn't it?'

'Eleven-thirty-five,' Emmeline corrected me coldly.

When she returned, she said she had seen Mr. Ispenlove and given him the
letter and the parcel.

IV

I had acquaintances in Torquay, but I soon discovered that the place was
impossible for me. Torquay is the chosen home of the proprieties, the
respectabilities, and all the conventions. Nothing could dislodge them
from its beautiful hills; the very sea, as it beats primly, or with a
violence that never forgets to be discreet, on the indented shore,
acknowledges their sway. Aphrodite never visits there; the human race is
not continued there. People who have always lived within the conventions
go there to die within the conventions. The young do not flourish there;
they escape from the soft enervation. Since everybody is rich, there are
no poor. There are only the rich, and the servitors, who get rich. These
two classes never mix--even in the most modest villas they live on
opposite sides of the house. The life of the town is a vast conspiracy on
the part of the servitors to guard against any danger of the rich taking
all their riches to heaven. You can, if you are keen enough, detect
portions of this conspiracy in every shop. On the hills each abode stands
in its own undulating grounds, is approached by a winding drive of at
least ten yards, is wrapped about by the silence of elms, is flanked by
greenhouses, and exudes an immaculate propriety from all its windows. In
the morning the rich descend, the servitors ascend; the bosky and
perfectly-kept streets on the hills are trodden with apologetic celerity
by the emissaries of the servitors. The one interminable thoroughfare of
the town is graciously invaded by the rich, who, if they have not walked
down for the sake of exercise, step cautiously from their carriages,
enunciate a string of orders ending with the name of a house, and
cautiously regain their carriages. Each house has a name, and the pride
of the true servitor is his ability to deduce instantly from the name of
the house the name of its owner and the name of its street. In the
afternoon a vast and complicated game of visiting cards is played. One
does not begin to be serious till the evening; one eats then, solemnly
and fully, to the faint accompaniment of appropriate conversation. And
there is no relief, no surcease from utmost conventionality. It goes on