No deadly visions troubled him, however, for the slow train had brought about a condition of abject weariness which resulted in dreamless slumber. The sun shone into his bleak bed-chamber when he awoke next morning, and the lake stretched beneath his windows, silver-shining, melting dimly into the grey of the opposite shore. The mountains were sulking still, and only showed their ragged crests above dark rolling clouds; but the scene was an improvement upon the avenue of chimney-pots and distant glimpse of a murky Thames as seen from Ferret Court. His landlord greeted him in a more cheerful spirit upon Monday morning than he had evinced on Sunday evening when his after-dinner lethargy was rudely disturbed by a guest whose business-like air and small Gladstone bag did not promise much profit; a visitor who would want a dinner off the joint, most likely, and a half-crown breakfast; a visitor whose libations would be limited to bitter beer and an occasional whisky and soda. Such a guest in a house that was beginning to hibernate was a burden rather than a boon. This morning, however, the landlord was reconciled to his solitary customer, having told his wife that after all, “little fish are sweet,” and he went blithely to order the dog-cart—his own cart and own man—ostler in the season, coachman or anything you please out of the season—to drive Mr. Dalbrook to Kettisford Vicarage, a nine-mile journey. It was a pretty, out-of-the-way nook—half hidden in a cleft of the hills—at which Theodore arrived a few minutes after noon; a little, old-fashioned, world-forgotten village, and a sprawling old greystone house, covered with Virginia creeper, passion-flower, and the feathery leafage of the trumpet ash; a long, low house, with heavily thatched roof, projecting over its upper casements; a sleepy-looking old house in a still sleepier garden, so remote and so sheltered that winter had forgotten to come there; and the great yellow roses were still blooming on the wall, fattened by the misty atmosphere of the adjacent lake, glorified by the untainted air. November was half over, yet here the only signs of autumn were the grey sky, and the crimson of the Virginia creeper. The Vicar of Kettisford was one of those privileged persons who can speak with their enemies at the gate, assured of being backed up in their speech by a family contingent. The Vicarage seemed overflowing with young life, from the very threshold of the hall, where cricket-bats, a tricycle, a row of well-used tennis rackets, a stupendous array of hats, overcoats, and comforters, testified to that quiverful so esteemed in the patriarchal age.