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Updated: June 12, 2025
One Sunday evening our poet, warmed by old Deleglise's Burgundy, forgetful whose recommendation had secured him the lowly but timely appointment, himself revealed the secret. "Most convenient place I've got," so he told old Deleglise. "Whole house to myself. I wander about; it just suits me." "I'm glad to hear that," murmured old Deleglise.
Much rather would I have shocked them by the originality of my views, impressed them with the depth of my judgments. They declined to be startled, refused to be impressed; instead, they laughed. Nor from these men could I obtain sympathy in my disappointment. "What do you mean, you villain!" roared Deleglise's caretaker at me one evening on entering the kitchen.
For two months I wandered, avoiding beaten tracks, my only comrades a few books, belonging to no age, no country. My worries fell from me, the personal affairs of Paul Kelver ceasing to appear the be all and the end all of the universe. But for a chance meeting with Wellbourne, Deleglise's amateur caretaker of Gower Street fame, I should have delayed yet longer my return.
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