n glorious through the
long tale that nine hundred years have to tell. Ashbourne Crescent may
possibly soon be replaced by something better, but at present it
commands our admiration, for it is, more than all else, typical England.
Neither ideas nor much lucidity will be found there, but much belief in
the wisdom shown in the present ordering of things, and much plain sense
and much honesty of purpose. Certainly, if your quest be for hectic
emotion and passionate impulses, you would do well to turn your steps
aside; you will not find them in Ashbourne Crescent. There life flows
monotonously, perhaps sometimes even a little moodily, but it is built
upon a basis of honest materialism--that materialism without which the
world cannot live. And No. 31 differs a little from the rest of the
houses. The paint on its walls is fresher, and there are no flowers on
its balcony: the hall-door has three bells instead of the usual two, and
there is a brass plate with 'Dr. Reed' engraved upon it. The cook is
talking through the area-railings to the butcher-boy; a smart
parlourmaid opens the door, and we see that the interior is as orderly,
commonplace, and clean as we might expect at every house in the
crescent. The floorcloths are irreproachable, the marble-painted walls
are unadorned with a single picture. On the right is the dining-room, a
mahogany table bought for five pounds in the Tottenham Court Road, a
dozen chairs to match, a sideboard and a small table; green-painted
walls decorated with two engravings, one of Frith's 'Railway Station,'
the other of Guido's 'Fortune.' Further down the passage leading to the
kitchen-stairs there is a second room: this is the Doctor's
consulting-room. A small bookcase filled with serious-looking volumes, a
mahogany escritoire strewn with papers, letters, memoranda of all sorts.
The floor is covered with a bright Brussels carpet; there are two
leather armchairs, and a portrait of an admiral hangs over the
fireplace.

Let us go upstairs. How bright and clean are the high marble-painted
walls! and on the first landing there is a large cheaply coloured
window. The drawing-room is a double room, not divided by curtains but
by stiff folding-doors. The furniture is in red, and the heavy curtains
that drape the windows fall from gilt cornices. In the middle of the
floor there is a settee (probably a reminiscence of the Shelbourne
Hotel); and on either side of the fireplace there are sofas, and about
t