I had to smile at the rural accent. He was so simple minded--so innocent, apparently. Every one called him Wilkins--not Mr. Wilkins (as his colleagues might in America) or John or Jack or some sobriquet, but just Wilkins. He was Wilkins to every one--the master, the maid, the children. The maid was Dora to every one, and the nurse, Nana. It was all interesting to me because it was so utterly new. And then this landscape round about; the feel of the country was refreshing. I knew absolutely nothing about it, and yet I could see and feel that we were in a region of comfortable suburban life. I could hear the popping of guns all day long, here--and thereabouts--this being the open season for shooting, not hunting, as my host informed me; there was no such thing as hunting hereabouts. I could see men strolling here and there together, guns under their arms, plaid caps on their heads, in knee breeches, and leather leggings. I could see, from my writing desk in the drawing-room window, clever-riding English girls bounding by on light-moving horses, and in my limited walks I saw plenty of comfortable-looking country places--suburban homes. I was told by a friend of mine that this was rather a pleasant country section, but that I might see considerable of the same thing anywhere about London at this distance. “Dora” the maid interested me very much. She was so quiet, so silent and so pretty. The door would open, any time during the day when I was writing, and in she would come to look after the fire, to open or close the windows, to draw the curtains, light the candles and serve the tea, or to call me to luncheon or dinner. Usually I ate my luncheon and drank my four-o’clock tea alone. I ate my evening meal all alone once. It made no difference--my eating alone. The service was quite the same; the same candles were lighted--several brackets on different parts of the table; the fire built in the dining-room. There were four or five courses and wine. Dora stood behind me watching me eat in silence, and I confess I felt very queer. It was all so solemn, so stately. I felt like some old gray baron or bachelor shut away from the world and given to contemplating the follies of his youth. When through with nuts and wine--the final glass of port--it was the custom of the house to retire to the drawing-room and drink the small cup of black coffee which was served there. And on this night, although I was quite alone, it was the same. The coffee was served just as promptly and dignifiedly as though there were eight or ten present. It interested me greatly, all of it, and pleased me more than I can say.