Did Sir Roderick’s eccentricity extend to his living in a semi-tomb? As I pulled the bell, and heard a distant, feeble clang, I looked somewhat disconsolately after the comfortable-looking dogcart driving away, remembering some of the ancient Greek philosophers’ predilections for doing their work among the tombs. Out of perversity, I daresay, I felt utterly disinclined for philosophical disquisitions in this tomb-like place; in fact, I yearned for a real boyish holiday in those grounds with young, merry companions (I had better be truthful with myself). What was my dismay when a solemn-looking old servitor in black (he had white hair and a “white choker,” and looked like a _major-domo_ of State funerals) ushered me into a vault-like crypt. There were niches in the walls and more urns. He offered to take my bag. I clutched it tight, expecting some grim jest on the part of my host. When he said, “Will you please walk this way, sir,” and, opening a door, disclosed a long, vault-like passage, I hesitated; but he slouched off at such a rate, and the echo of his footsteps clattering on the stone pavement was so loud, I could not stop him, so I followed in silence—down a flight of stone steps, round a corner, down another darker and narrower staircase (all lighted dimly by tiny yellow-glass windows in the wall), until, when I was emerging into total darkness, I paused. “I can’t see!” I shouted, really annoyed. Sir Roderick could not be living underground—that was all nonsense. He was playing a trick upon me, and would think it fine fun. “I will strike a match,” I added, crossly; but the old man pulled open a door. The landing just below me was suddenly flooded with light. Stepping down, I turned and followed him into a large conservatory. What a magical change! The blue clear light from the glass dome showed up each frond of the great tree-ferns, each grand leaf of the palms, each yellow orange and white-waxen blossom of the orange-trees. Huge crimson blooms hung upon the thick festoons of the sub-tropical creeping plants, and there was my friend the Cape jessamine strengthening the warm, intoxicating perfume of the gardenias, daphnes, and, above all, of the orange-blossom. It was a relief to be out of the scented atmosphere and in an ordinary, square hall, which had a billiard-table in the centre. My _cicerone_ asked me to wait; but after opening various doors and exploring several rooms, he came to me with a rueful expression. “They _was_ here half-an-hour ago,” he said; “but they must be out now. Lor! why they’re on the lawn. Come along, sir!” He must have caught sight of “them” through a window. He opened the hall-door, and I saw a lawn with spreading trees, under one of which Sir Roderick was seated in a basket-chair, smoking. At his feet lay a huge mastiff. By his side sat a lady, bending over a book, her face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat.