He was turning fifty when his great-aunt died and made him her heir: "as
a poor reward for his immortal services to literature," read the will of
this phenomenally appreciative relative. The estate was a large one.
There was a rush for his books; new editions were announced. He smiled
with cynicism, not unmixed with sadness; but he was very grateful for
the money, and as soon as his fastidious taste would permit he bought
him a country-seat.

The place gratified all his ideals and dreams--for he had romanced about
his sometime English possession as he had never dreamed of woman. It had
once been the property of the Church, and the ruin of cloister and
chapel above the ancient wood was sharp against the low pale sky. Even
the house itself was Tudor, but wealth from generation to generation had
kept it in repair; and the lawns were as velvety, the hedges as rigid,
the trees as aged as any in his own works. It was not a castle nor a
great property, but it was quite perfect; and for a long while he felt
like a bridegroom on a succession of honeymoons. He often laid his hand
against the rough ivied walls in a lingering caress.

After a time, he returned the hospitalities of his friends, and his
invitations, given with the exclusiveness of his great distinction, were
never refused. Americans visiting England eagerly sought for letters to
him; and if they were sometimes benumbed by that cold and formal
presence, and awed by the silences of Chillingsworth--the few who
entered there--they thrilled in anticipation of verbal triumphs, and
forthwith bought an entire set of his books. It was characteristic that
they dared not ask him for his autograph.

Although women invariably described him as "brilliant," a few men
affirmed that he was gentle and lovable, and any one of them was well