of box, and made out here and there the clipped artificialities of a yew
hedge. There were standard roses, too. One rose started up suddenly before
my face, touching me as I passed with a limp, cool caress, like the
careless, indifferent encouragement of a preoccupied courtesan.

At the end of the pleasance we came to a high wall, and as Jervaise
fumbled with the fastening of a, to me, invisible door, I was expecting
that now we should come out into the open, into a paddock, perhaps, or a
grass road through the Park. But beyond the wall was a kitchen garden. It
was lighter there, and I could see dimly that we were passing down an
aisle of old espaliers that stretched sturdy, rigid arms, locked finger to
finger with each other in their solemn grotesque guardianship of the
enciente they enclosed. No doubt in front of them was some kind of
herbaceous border. I caught sight of the occasional spire of a hollyhock,
and smelt the acid insurgence of marigolds.

None of this was at all the mischievous, taunting fairyland that I had
anticipated, but rather the gaunt, intimidating home of ogres, rank and
more than a trifle forbidding. It had an air of age that was not immortal,
but stiffly declining into a stubborn resistance against the slow rigidity
of death. These espaliers made me think of rheumatic veterans, obstinately
faithful to ancient duties--veterans with knobbly arthritic joints.

At the end of the aisle we came to a high-arched opening in the ten-foot
wall, barred by a pair of heavy iron gates.

"Hold on a minute, I've got the key," Jervaise said. This was the first
time he had spoken since we left the house. His tone seemed to suggest
that he was afraid I should attempt to scale the wall or force my way
through the bars of the gates.