She--"

"Do you know any one who does interpret dreams?" Gladys asked. "Why, yes! A firm, claiming to do all sorts of wonderful things--to
tell dreams, solve tricks, divine the presence of metals and water,
and so on, has just set up in Cockspur Street. I read a short notice
about them in this morning's paper. I will get it for you." She left the room and in a few moments returned. "Here it is," she said. And under the heading of "Sorcery Revived"
Gladys read as follows:--

"There is really no end to the devices to which people resort nowadays
to make money, but for sheer novelty, nothing, we think, beats this. Three Americans, Messrs. Hamar, Kelson and Curtis, fresh from San
Francisco, California, have just bought premises in Cockspur Street,
S.W., and set up there as Sorcerers! "They style themselves 'The Modern Sorcery Company Ltd.,' and profess
to interpret dreams, read people's thoughts, tell their pasts, solve
all manner of tricks and detect the presence of metals and water. One
wonders what next!" "This paper evidently has its doubts," Gladys commented. "They are
frauds, of course." "I dare say they are," the Vicar's wife replied, "though I believe in
thought-reading and other things they say they can do. I advised Miss
Rosenberg to see them about her dream. She went in by the nine o'clock
train. Had you come a few minutes earlier you would have seen her." "Well, thanks awfully," Gladys said, "for telling me about these
people. Very probably I'll go in to Town some time during the day and
call at Cockspur Street. I must apologize again for calling at such an
unearthly hour. Good-bye," and Gladys smilingly took her departure. CHAPTER IX

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT


Shortly after Gladys reached home after her visit to the Vicarage, a
young man with a serious expression somewhat out of keeping with his
jaunty walk, entered the gate of Pine Cottage, and came to an abrupt
halt. "Well," he ejaculated, "this is a pretty place, and what's more--for
dozens of houses and gardens are pretty--it's artistic!" In front of
him stretched a miniature avenue of chestnut trees, which was rendered
striking, even to the most casual observer, probably, not only on
account of the irregular mounds of moss-covered stones that occupied
its intervening spaces, but also, by reason of the masses of wild
flowers (great clumps of which were springing up in the crevices of
this impromptu wall) that lent to it an appearance half negligent, but
wholly and entrancingly picturesque. Here, undoubtedly, was art. That
did not astonish the young man. All avenues, in the ordinary sense,
are works of art; and the mere excess of art he saw manifested did not
surprise him; it was the character of the art that had brought him to
a standstill and held him spellbound. And the longer he looked the
more he became convinced, that whoever had superintended the
arrangement of this scenery was an artist--an artist with a scrupulous
eye for form. The greatest care had been taken to keep the balance between neatness
and gracefulness on the one hand and picturesqueness on the other. There were few straight lines, and no long uninterrupted ones; whilst
at no one point of view did the same effect of curvature or colour
appear twice. Variety in uniformity was the keynote. At last tearing himself away from this one spot--where he felt he
could have spent centuries--he turned to the right and then again to
the left--for the path had now become serpentine, and at no moment
could be traced for more than two or three paces in advance. Presently
the sound of water fell gently on his ear, and in the shadiest of
diminutive forests, amidst the interlacing branches of elm and beech,
he caught the glimpse of a fountain. For an instant the wild thought
of forcing his way through it, of plunging his burning forehead in its
cooling spray, well-nigh mastered him. But his better sense conquered,
and he kept to the path. Another turn, and he caught his first glimpse
of a chimney; another--and the summit of a gable showed above the
trees. The sun, which had been hitherto obscured, now came out, and
suddenly--as if by the hand of magic--the whole scene was a brilliant
blaze of colour. He had arrived at the end of the avenue, where the
path forked; one branch turning sharply round in the direction of a
side entrance to the house, whilst the other led with a gentle
curvature to the front. Facing the building was a broad expanse of velvety turf, relieved
occasionally, here and there, by such showy shrubs as the hydrangea,
rhododendron, or lilac; but more frequently, and at closer intervals,
by clumps of geraniums, or roses--roses of every variety. There was
nothing pretentious in the garden, any more than there was in the
adjoining edifice. Its unusually pleasing effect lay altogether in its
artistic arrangement; and one could hardly help imagining that the
whole scene had, in reality, been called into existence by the brush
of some eminent landscape painter. The cottage itself was constructed of old-fashioned Dutch
shingles--broad and with rounded corners--and painted a dull grey; a
tint which, when contrasted with the vivid green of the tulip trees
that overshadowed the entrance to the house, and reared themselves
high above it on either side, afforded an artistic happiness perfectly
intoxicating to its present visitor. The architecture of the cottage
was--if not Early Tudor--something equally pleasing. Its roofs were
divided into many gables; its windows were diamond paned and
projecting, whilst oaken beams ran latitudinally and vertically over
its grey shingle front. Encompassing the whole base of the exterior
were masses of flowers--pinks, carnations, heliotrope, pansies,
poppies, lilies, wallflowers, roses and jasmines; and besides the
latter several other creepers had been planted beneath the walls, but
had not yet attained to any height. Shiel Davenport, for it was he, could not resist the temptation of
peeping in at the windows; and he saw that the interior of the cottage
was artistry and simplicity itself. At the windows, curtains of heavy
white jaconet muslin, not too full, hung in sharp parallel plaits to
the floor--just to the floor. The walls were papered with French
papers of rare delicacy--to match the seasons; (spring, summer, autumn
and winter were all most effectively depicted), and the furniture
though light, was at the same time costly. And here again was the same
effect of arrangement--an arrangement obviously designed by the same
brain that had planned the building and grounds. Shiel could not
conceive anything more graceful. Flowers--flowers of every hue and
odour were the chief decoration of the cottage. On almost every table
were vases--in themselves beautiful enough--yet filled to overflowing
with the finest roses. Ox-eye daisies, hollyhocks and forget-me-nots
clustered about the open windows. And every puff of wind, every breath
of air transmitted scent--the most delicious medley of scent
imaginable.