quarrelling.

Drawing in deep draughts of the stinging autumn air, I felt happy and
exhilarated. It was like going for a holiday, with comfort at the end of
the journey instead of bargaining for centimes.

But my heart sank noticeably the moment the house came into view. The
long drive, lined with hostile monkey trees and formal wellingtonias
that were solemn and sedate, was mere extension of the miniature
approach to a thousand semidetached suburban "residences"; and the
appearance of The Towers, as we turned the corner with a rush, suggested
a commonplace climax to a story that had begun interestingly, almost
thrillingly. A villa had escaped from the shadow of the Crystal Palace,
thumped its way down by night, grown suddenly monstrous in a shower of
rich rain, and settled itself insolently to stay. Ivy climbed about the
opulent red-brick walls, but climbed neatly and with disfiguring effect,
sham as on a prison or--the simile made me smile--an orphan asylum.
There was no hint of the comely roughness of untidy ivy on a ruin.
Clipped, trained, and precise it was, as on a brand-new protestant
church. I swear there was not a bird's nest nor a single earwig in it
anywhere. About the porch it was particularly thick, smothering a
seventeenth-century lamp with a contrast that was quite horrible.
Extensive glass-houses spread away on the farther side of the house; the
numerous towers to which the building owed its name seemed made to hold
school bells; and the windowsills, thick with potted flowers, made me
think of the desolate suburbs of Brighton or Bexhill. In a commanding
position upon the crest of a hill, it overlooked miles of undulating,
wooded country southwards to the Downs, but behind it, to the north,
thick banks of ilex, holly, and privet protected it from the cleaner and
more stimulating winds. Hence, though highly placed, it was shut in.