It was nearly half-past eleven when I left Wareham’s to escort Desmoulin to the Alexandra Road.  I there left him in charge of his host, Mr. Everson, and then turning (by way of a short cut) into the Lover’s Walk, which the South Western Railway Company so considerately provides for amorous Wimbledonians, I hurried homeward, wondering what the morrow would bring forth.

V

WIMBLEDON—­OATLANDS

It will be obvious to all readers of this narrative that from the moment M. Zola left Paris, and throughout his sojourn in London and its immediate neighbourhood, there was little if any skill shown in the matter of keeping his movements secret.  In point of fact, blunder upon blunder was committed.  A first mistake was made in going to an hotel like the Grosvenor; a second in openly promenading some of the most frequented of the London streets; and a third in declining to make the slightest alteration with regard to personal appearance.  Again, although press of circumstances rendered departure for Wimbledon a necessity, as it was imperative to get M. Zola out of London at once, this change of quarters was in the end scarcely conducive to secrecy.  A good many Wimbledonians were aware of my connection with M. Zola, and even if he were not personally recognised by them, the circumstance of a French gentleman of striking appearance being seen in my company was fated to arouse suspicion.  My home is but a mile or so from the centre of Wimbledon, and M. Zola’s proposal to make that locality his place of sojourn seemed to me such a dangerous course that when I returned to Wareham’s house on the morning of Friday, July 22, I was determined to oppose it, in the master’s own interests, as vigorously as might be possible.

However, I found Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin ready to start for an inspection of such furnished houses as might seem suitable for their accommodation; and nothing urged either by Wareham or by myself could turn them from their purpose.  So the four of us took our seats in the landau which had been ordered, and were soon driving in the direction of Wimbledon Park, where stood the first of the eligible residences entered in the books of a local house agent.  The terms for these houses varied, if I recollect rightly, from four to seven guineas a week.  Some we did not trouble to enter; others, however, were carefully inspected.

Nothing in the way of a terrace house would suit; for M. Zola was not yet a phalansterian.  And in like way he objected to the semi-detached villas.  He wished to secure a somewhat retired place, girt with foliage and thus screened from the observation of neighbours and passers-by.  The low garden railings and fences usually met with were by no means to his taste.  The flimsy party walls of the semi-detached villas, through which every sound so swiftly passes, were equally objectionable to him.  And I must say that I viewed with some little satisfaction his dislike for several of the houses which we visited; for this made it easier to dissuade him from his plan of fixing his abode in Wimbledon, where, unless he should rigidly confine himself within doors, it was certain that his presence would be known before a week was over.