One afternoon, then, I started with Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin for Walton, from which station the Oatlands Park Hotel is most conveniently reached.  A Gladstone bag had now replaced the master’s newspaper parcel, and as M. Desmoulin’s dressing-case was as large as a valise, there was at least some semblance of luggage.  I fully realised that it was hardly the correct thing to present oneself at Oatlands Park and ask for rooms there ex abrupto; as with hostelries of that class it is usual for one to write and secure accommodation beforehand.  However, there was no time for this; and we decided to run the risk of finding the hotel ‘full up,’ particularly as Wareham had informed us that in such a case we might secure a temporary billet at one or another of the smaller hotels of Walton or Weybridge.  Thus we went our way at all hazards, and during the journey I devised a little story for the benefit of the manager at Oatlands Park.

That gentleman, as I had surmised, was a trifle astonished at our appearance.  But I told him that my friends were a couple of French artists, who had been spending a few weeks in London ‘doing the lions’ there, and who had heard of the charming scenery around Oatlands, and wished to view it, and possibly make a few sketches.  And, at the same time, a solicitor’s recommendation being of some value, since it might mean a good many future customers, I handed the manager one of Wareham’s cards.  There was, I remember, some little difficulty at first in obtaining rooms, for the hotel was nearly full; but everything ended satisfactorily.

I may mention, perhaps, that in describing Messrs. Zola and Desmoulin as French artists, I had at least told half the truth.  M. Fernand Desmoulin is, of course, well known in the French art world; and, moreover, he had already spoken to me of purchasing a water-colour outfit for the very purpose of sketching, as I had stated.  Then, too, M. Zola first distinguished himself in literature as an art critic, the defender of Manet, the champion of the school of the ‘open air.’  And if he made no sketches whilst he remained at Oatlands he at least took several photographs.  Sapient critics will stop me here with the oft-repeated dictum that photography is not art.  But however that may be, so many painters nowadays have recourse to the assistance of photography that M. Zola’s ‘snap-shotting’ largely helped to bear out the account which I had given of him at the hotel.

Oatlands Park is a large pile standing on the site of a magnificent palace built by Henry VIII.  Anne of Denmark, wife of James I., resided there, and Henrietta Maria there gave birth to the Duke of Gloucester, the brother of our second Charles and second James.  The palace was almost entirely destroyed during the Civil Wars, and subsequently the property passed in turn to Jermyn, Earl of St. Albans; Herbert, the admiral, first Earl of Torrington; and Henry, seventh Earl of Lincoln.  A descendant of