It was a wilderness. Way off in the distance he got glimpses of broken
walls with all kinds of green things creeping and climbing, and
hanging on for life. Inside the walls there was a riot of
flowers--hollyhocks and giroflées, dahlias and phlox, poppies and huge
daisies, and roses everywhere, even climbing old tree trunks, and
sprawling all over the garden front of the rambling house. The edges
of the paths had green borders that told of Corbeil d'Argent in
Midwinter, and violets in early spring. He leaned out and looked along
the house. It was just a jumble of all sorts of buildings which had
evidently been added at different times. It seemed to be on half a
dozen elevations, and no two windows were of the same size, while
here and there an outside staircase led up into a loft.

Once he had taken it in he dressed like a flash--he could not get out
into that garden quickly enough, to pray the Widow to serve coffee
under a huge tree in the centre of the garden, about the trunk of
which a rude table had been built, and it was there that the Divorcée
found him when she came out, simply glowing with enthusiasm--the
house, the garden, the Widow, the day--everything was perfect.

While they were taking their coffee, poured from the earthen jug, in
the thick old Rouen cups, the Divorcée said:

"How I'd love to own a place like this. No one would ever dream of
building such a house. It has taken centuries of accumulated needs to
expand it into being. If one tried to do the thing all at once it
would look too on-purpose. This place looks like a happy combination
of circumstances which could not help itself."