to be decked in roses and lilies."

"An opinion worthy of all respect," declared Mr. Churchouse.

Then he asked after the health of his guest and expressed sympathy for
her sorrow and great loss.

"He'd been so much better lately that it was a shock," she said, "but he
died as he wanted to die--as all Ironsydes do die--without an illness.
It is a tradition that never seems to fail. That reconciled us in a way.
And you--how are you? You seldom come to Bridport nowadays."

Mr. Churchouse rarely talked about himself.

"True. I have been immersed in literary work and getting on with my
_magnum opus_: 'The Church Bells of Dorset.' You see one does not obtain
much help here--no encouragement. Not that I expect it. We men of
letters have to choose between being hermits, or humbugs."

"I always thought a hermit was a humbug," said Jenny, smiling for the
first time.

"Not always. When I say 'hermit,' I mean 'recluse.' With all the will to
be a social success and identify myself with the welfare of the place in
which I dwell, my powers are circumscribed. Do not think I put myself
above the people, or pretend any intellectual superiority, or any
nonsense of that sort. No, it is merely a question of time and energy.
My antiquarian work demands both, and so I am deprived by duty from
mixing in the social life as much as I wish. This is not, perhaps,
understood, and so I get a character for aloofness, which is not wholly