Carewe, there existed a citizen of Rouen, one already quoted, who had the
temerity to declare the polish to be in truth quite nameless and
indescribable for the reason that one cannot paint a vacuum. However,
subscription to this opinion should not be over-hasty, since Mr. Crailey
Gray had been notoriously a rival of Carewe's with every pretty woman in
town, both having the same eye in such matters, and also because the
slandered gentleman could assume a manner when he chose to, whether or not
he possessed it. At his own table he exhaled a hospitable graciousness
which, from a man of known evil temper, carried the winsomeness of
surprise. When he wooed, it was with an air of stately devotion, combined
with that knowingness which sometimes offsets for a widower the tendency
a girl has to giggle at him; and the combination had been, once or twice,
too much for even the alluring Crailey.

Mr. Carewe lived in an old-fashioned house on the broad, quiet, shady
street which bore his name. There was a wide lawn in front, shadowy under
elm and locust trees, and bounded by thick shrubberies. A long garden,
fair with roses and hollyhocks, lay outside the library windows, an old-
time garden, with fine gravel paths and green arbors; drowsed over in
summer-time by the bees, while overhead the locust rasped his rusty
cadences the livelong day; and a faraway sounding love-note from the high
branches brought to mind the line, like an old refrain:

"The voice of the turtle was heard in the land."

Between the garden and the carriage gates there was a fountain where a
bronze boy with the dropsy (but not minding it) lived in a perpetual bath
from a green goblet held over his head. Nearby, a stone sun-dial gleamed
against a clump of lilac bushes; and it was upon this spot that the white
kitten introduced Thomas Vanrevel to Miss Carewe.