slice of Chilvers' has already cost me one legacy.

I have traced my ancestry as far back as I dare, and have a certain
amount of reverence for hallowed traditions and all that sort of thing.
I must admit there have been times when I have almost imagined that the
shades of three generations of more or less distinguished Smiths were
holding an indignation meeting to protest against this golf invasion of
their mundane haunts.

Where my great-grandmother once sang over her spinning wheel there has
been installed a modern shower bath. The huge old-fashioned dining-room,
with its cavernous fireplace, is now lined on three sides with lockers.
The place above it which was once filled with the blackened oil portrait
of our original Smith is now adorned with an engraving of Harry Varden
at the finish of his drive.

This picture of Varden's is said to be the best likeness yet produced
of this truly remarkable man. I have studied it for hours, but cannot
understand how he can grip a club as he does without hooking his ball.

All the bed-chambers on the second floor have been thrown into one large
room, which is used as a gymnasium. As near as I can make out, the place
where I once knelt to say my prayers is now occupied by a punching bag.

The ceiling has been removed, which, of course, does away with the
attic, and trapeze ropes now hang from rafters where successive
grandmothers suspended peppermint, pennyroyal and other weeds and herbs
possessing medicinal or culinary virtues.

I confess it does look a bit odd, but it makes a ripping good gym.