CHAPTER III.
In which I Play the Spy.
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The room to
which Bedford
conducted me
I hold to be the
very pleasantest
chamber in
all the mansion
of Shrublands.
To lie on that
comfortable,
cool bachelor's
bed there, and
see the birds
hopping about
on the lawn;
to peep out
of the French
window at
early morning,
inhale the
sweet air, mark
the dewy bloom
on the grass,
listen to the
little warblers
performing their chorus, step forth in your dressing-gown and slippers,
pick a strawberry from the bed, or an apricot in its season; blow one, two,
three, just half-a-dozen puffs of a cigarette, hear the venerable towers of
Putney toll the hour of six (three hours from breakfast, by consequence),
and pop back into bed again with a favourite novel, or review, to set you
off (you see I am not malicious, or I could easily insert here the name
of some twaddler against whom I have a grudgekin): to pop back into bed
again, I say, with a book which sets you off into that dear invaluable second
sleep, by which health, spirits, appetite are so prodigiously improved:—all
these I hold to be most cheerful and harmless pleasures, and have partaken
of them often at Shrublands with a grateful heart. That heart may have
had its griefs, but is yet susceptible of enjoyment and consolation. That
bosom may have been lacerated, but is not therefore and henceforward a
stranger to comfort. After a certain affair in Dublin—nay, very soon
