Sentiment unexceptionable. But as to the reason for the existence of
the fragment, his mind was a blank. He shut the book impatiently. It
was plain that no assistance was to be derived from it.
His thoughts wandered back to the idea of leaving London. London might
have suited Dr. Johnson, but he had come to the conclusion that what
he wanted to enable him to give the public of his best (as the
reviewer of the _Academy_, dealing with his last work, had expressed a
polite hope that he would continue to do) was country air. A farmhouse
by the sea somewhere ... cows ... spreading boughs ... rooks ...
brooks ... cream. In London the day stretches before a man, if he has
no regular and appointed work to do, like a long, white, dusty road.
It seems impossible to get to the end of it without vast effort. But
in the country every hour has its amusements. Up with the lark.
Morning dip. Cheery greetings. Local color. Huge breakfast. Long
walks. Flannels. The ungirt loin. Good, steady spell of work from
dinner till bedtime. The prospect fascinated him. His third novel was
already in a nebulous state in his brain. A quiet week or two in the
country would enable him to get it into shape.
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