'But you promised to go, and they are all expecting you,' she urged.
'Yes, my dear, but man, as you know, is a self-willed animal, and I have decided 'tis my duty no less than my pleasure to stay here and play the host properly to my guest, who has come all the way from a foreign country at my request and goes back to-night.'
And stay for my sake he did, and gave up the whole day to entertaining me in all manner of ways. He took me for a row upon the river, and on our return after lunch he sat with me in the garden—a long orchard glade with lawn, fruit trees, and flowers behind the house—telling me of the change that had taken place in fruit and vegetable cultivation from the olden days, and giving me many curious instances of the feasting habits in the monasteries. Afterwards he sat smoking with me in the library, showing many of his rare book treasures, drawing my attention to the pages of illumination and typography, and reading to me one of the chapters in manuscript of his forthcoming first volume of prose romances, 'The House of the Wolfings,' upon which he was then engaged. He then settled himself down to tell me a number of droll experiences in connection with the business side of his work, and stories of Bell Scott, Swinburne, Rossetti, Burne-Jones, and other of his more notable friends. Two of these I particularly recall. One was of Sir John Millais, and was intended as a sly dig at my Scottish vanity (Morris always believed, or pretended to believe, that I was intensely patriotic as a Scotsman, and liked to tease me about Scotland). Lady Millais, he explained, was a Perthshire woman, and was, he said, somewhat of a strict Sabbatarian, and, he added slyly, 'much addicted to the economical virtues of your countrymen.' One Sunday Sir John was playing in the garden with the children, when he heard Lady Millais' voice from one of the windows call 'John, John!' 'What is it, my dear?' asked he. The reply came, 'If you will break the Sabbath, you might as well be doing something useful,
