He remembered so well the building of the cottage—how clearly its white walls stood out against the green background of the downs, and how pleasantly the months had slipped away when he stayed there the last summer; he almost dreaded now to go on and to cross its threshold; it would be so dreary and so empty. With a half laugh, he shook himself free from these oppressive thoughts, and hurried along down the chalky road into the village, where many homely acquaintances greeted him warmly, expressing surprise at his visiting them at such a time of the year. Mrs. Witchout, who “did” for him, stood on the doorstep ready to greet him. She was an abnormally tall, abnormally thin, abnormally pinched-faced and red-nosed woman, which beacon was a libel upon her teetotal principles and practice. “The fire’s burnin’ nicerly, and your luggidge’s all piled upinaheap,” said Mrs. Witchout, in her piping voice, which came startlingly as would the note of a penny whistle from a lengthy organ pipe. “I didn’t like to sort it out not knowin’-whatswhat.” Mrs. Witchout’s most remarkable gift was a breathless way of running two or three words into one, which was not only astonishing but often perplexing. “That’s all right, Mrs. Witchout. How are you?” “I’m myself, which comes to the same as sayin’ I’m middlin’; w’en I ain’t got a cold in the ’ead I’m sure to have a blister on my ’eel, but I managesterfergitit by not thinkin’ abart myself. Ain’t you ’ungry, sir? I do ’ope so. I’ve got two sich nice chops, pertaties, cabidgeanda cheese.” “Hungry! I should say I am! The walk across the cliffs is better than any pick-me-up in the world. So on with the chops and out with the cheese.” The north end of the cottage was occupied by one large room, lit by a long lattice window and a skylight above; a passage ran from the front door right through to the back, and on the south there were two floors, the lower half kitchen, half sitting room, the upper a bedroom reached by a narrow stair from the passage. A snug nest Maddison had thought it, but despite the bright fires in studio and kitchen and Mrs. Witchout’s warm welcome, there was a sense of desolateness about the place that hurt him. He carried his portmanteau up to the bedroom, unstrapped it, then sat down on the edge of the bed and looked out of the open window, through which the breeze came cool and crisp. There lay the sea, spread out like a great, gray drugget, and in the distance the gathering fog. It _was_ dreary. “Chopson the table!” Mrs. Witchout called up the stairs. “Wat’llyoudrink? Beer?” “Beer will do A1!” Again Maddison tried to shake himself free of his oppression, and ran down the stairs. “You’re a brick, Mrs. Witchout: chops and cheese and beer! Here goes!” Mrs. Witchout tucked her hands under her apron and looked on approvingly as he set to vigorously.