It is a sample of
Paradise left at our door--that courtyard. As English as a hedge,
as neat, as beautiful. London is a roar somewhere beyond; between
our court and the great city is a magic gate, forever closed. It
was the court that led me to take these rooms.
And, since you are one who loves mystery, I am going to relate to
you the odd chain of circumstances that brought me here.
For the first link in that chain we must go back to Interlaken.
Have you been there yet? A quiet little town, lying beautiful
between two shimmering lakes, with the great Jungfrau itself for
scenery. From the dining-room of one lucky hotel you may look up
at dinner and watch the old-rose afterglow light the snow-capped
mountain. You would not say then of strawberries: "I hate them."
Or of anything else in all the world.
A month ago I was in Interlaken. One evening after dinner I strolled
along the main street, where all the hotels and shops are drawn up at
attention before the lovely mountain. In front of one of the shops
I saw a collection of walking sticks and, since I needed one for
climbing, I paused to look them over. I had been at this only a
moment when a young Englishman stepped up and also began examining
the sticks.
I had made a selection from the lot and was turning away to
find the shopkeeper, when the Englishman spoke.
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