A heavy silence fell for a moment.

“And your descriptions of nature,” continued the admirer.  “That sunset seen from the west coast of Ireland that you describe in The Courtship of Hartley Casey.  You must know Ireland very well.”

“I have never been there,” said Mrs. Gustus.  “I evolve my scenery.  After all, Nature lives in the heart of each one of us.  I think we all have a sort of Secret World of our own, out of which all that is best in us comes.  One does not need to see with one’s outward eyes.”

“Oh, goodness me, how true that is,” said the admirer.  “But you must write a book about the downs, won’t you?  Do you take notes on your travels?”

“My notebook is never out of my hand,” answered Mrs. Gustus.  “I jot down whatever occurs to me, wherever I may be.  I write by moonlight in the night, I have had to pause in the middle of my prayers in Church, I have stood transfixed in the full flow of a London street.  I always hope that people will think I am suddenly remembering that I forgot to order to-morrow’s dinner.”

But really she knew that no one could ever be deceived in the purpose of the notebook.

“Oh, mustn’t it be wonderful!” breathed the admirer, and Cousin Gustus, who was always properly impressed by his wife when the example was set by strangers, nodded with a proprietary smile.  “And are you writing now?” she continued.

“I am always writing,” said Mrs. Gustus, who had seldom enjoyed herself so much, “my pen never rests.  A lifetime is too short to allow of rest.  But I am not here primarily for inspiration.  We are on a quest.”

“Oh, how romantic,” moaned the admirer.

“It is a quest with a certain amount of romance in it,” agreed Anonyma.  “We are seeking a House By The Sea.  We know very little about it except that it exists.  We know that its windows look west, and that the sun sets over the sea.  We know that it stands ungardened on the cliff and has a great view.  We know that it is seven hundred years old, and full of inspiration ...”

“We know,” continued Kew, “that you can—­and often do—­drop a fishing-line out of the window into the sea when you are tired of playing the goldfish in the water-butt.  We know that the owner of the house is a rotten shot, and that the stone balls from the balustrade are not at this moment where they ought to be.  We know that aeroplanes as well as seagulls nest in those cliffs....”

“We know—­” began Mr. Russell, but this was too much for Mrs. Gustus.  After all, the lady was her admirer.

“What’s all this?” said Mrs. Gustus.  “What do you people know about it?”

“I just thought I would talk a little now,” said Kew.  “I get quickly tired of hearing other people giving information without help from me.”

“At any rate, Russ,” continued Mrs. Gustus, “you can’t know anything whatever about the matter.  You have hardly listened when I read Jay’s letters.”