fresh green, and that the air was full of the twitter of birds. Spring in the country, I said to myself, is a very different thing from spring in the city. It is the trees that leave, instead of the people; the birds’ eggs that are laid, instead of the evil-smelling asphalt pavements; and the lawn-sprinklers that play, instead of the hand-organs. I felt that I had made a wise decision, as I turned a corner and came in sight of what I was sure was the land I contemplated buying. It formed a slight rise from the level of the road — and at the summit of the rise was perched a rock — and on the summit of the rock was perched — a girl! I felt precisely as if I had found a fly in the cream-jug. If there is a place of all places where a fly’s presence is bound to be unappreciated, it is in the cream; and if there was a place of all places where a girl’s was inappropriate, it was in the geometrical centre of the three acres upon which I purposed to build “Sans Souci.” I had already chosen
