I liked America I remained there three years. I sailed for America in
the month of October, two or three weeks after the incident of the Chain
Pier, and I returned to England after an absence of three years and
seven months. I found myself at home again when the lovely month of May
was at its fairest. During all that time only one incident of any note
happened to me, or, rather, happened that interested me. Lance Fleming
was married.

He wrote whole volumes to me before his marriage, and he wrote whole
volumes afterwards. Of course, she was perfection--nay, just a little
beyond perfection, I think. She was beautiful, clever, accomplished,
and such a darling--of course, I might be sure of that. One thing only
was wanted to make him perfectly happy--it was that I should see his
lady-love. Her name was Frances Wynn, and he assured me that it was the
most poetical name in the world. Page after page of rhapsody did he
write and I read, until at last I believed him, that he had found the
one perfect woman in the world.

Lance wrote oftener still when I told him that I was coming home. I must
go at once to Dutton Manor. I should find Dutton Manor an earthly
Paradise, he said, and he was doubly delighted that I should be there in
May, for in May it wore its fairest aspect.

"A wife makes home heaven, John," he never tired of writing. "I wonder
often why Heaven has blessed me so greatly. My wife is--well, I worship
her--she is a proud woman, calm, fair, and lovely as a saint. You will
never know how much I love her until you have seen her. She fills the
old manor-house with sunshine and music. I love to hear the gentle sound
of her voice, sweet and low as the sound of a lute--the frou-frou of her
dress as she moves about. I am even more in love with her than when I