At their own cordial invitation, we had walked over from
the nearest railway station, a distance of some fourteen
miles. Indeed, as soon as they heard of our intention
they invited us to walk. "We are so sorry not to bring
you in the motor," they wrote, "but the roads are so
frightfully dusty that we might get dust on our chauffeur."
This little touch of thoughtfulness is the keynote of
their character.
The house itself is a delightful old mansion giving on
a wide garden, which gives in turn on a broad terrace
giving on the river.
The Eminent Novelist met us at the gate. We had expected
to find the author of _Angela Rivers_ and _The Garden of
Desire_ a pale aesthetic type (we have a way of expecting
the wrong thing in our interviews). We could not resist
a shock of surprise (indeed we seldom do) at finding him
a burly out-of-door man weighting, as he himself told
us, a hundred stone in his stockinged feet (we think he
said stone).
He shook hands cordially.
"Come and see my pigs," he said.
"We wanted to ask you," we began, as we went down the
walk, "something about your books."
"Let's look at the pigs first," he said. "Are you anything
of a pig man?"
We are always anxious in our interviews to be all things
to all men.
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