Naturally, they imitated him, and as this
flattered him, and he had a kindly heart deep among the cere-cloths of
his formalities, he sooner or later wrote "appreciations" of them all,
which nobody living could understand, but which owing to the sub-title
and signature answered every purpose.
With all this, however, he was not utterly content. From the 12th of
August until late in the winter--when he did not go to Homburg and the
Riviera--he visited the best houses in England, slept in state chambers,
and meditated in historic parks; but the country was his one passion,
and he longed for his own acres.
He was turning fifty when his great-aunt died and made him her heir: "as
a poor reward for his immortal services to literature," read the will of
this phenomenally appreciative relative. The estate was a large one.
There was a rush for his books; new editions were announced. He smiled
with cynicism, not unmixed with sadness; but he was very grateful for
the money, and as soon as his fastidious taste would permit he bought
him a country-seat.
The place gratified all his ideals and dreams--for he had romanced about
his sometime English possession as he had never dreamed of woman.
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