She had thought it time for him to return indoors, but he pleaded for a visit to his beloved roses.  He prided himself on being always able to pick roses on Christmas Day.

“This young man of yours,” he asked, “what is he like?”

“Oh, just a Christian gentleman,” she answered.  “You will love him when you know him.”

He laughed.  “And this new journal of his?” he asked.  “It’s got to be published in London, hasn’t it?”

She gave a slight start, for in their letters to one another they had been discussing this very point.

“No,” she answered, “it could be circulated just as well from, say, Birmingham or Manchester.”

He was choosing his roses.  They held their petals wrapped tight round them, trying to keep the cold from their brave hearts.  In the warmth they would open out and be gay, until the end.

“Not Liverpool?” he suggested.

“Or even Liverpool,” she laughed.

They looked at one another, and then beyond the sheltering evergreens and the wide lawns to where the great square house seemed to be listening.

“It’s an ugly old thing,” he said.

“No, it isn’t,” she contradicted.  “It’s simple and big and kind.  I always used to feel it disapproved of me.  I believe it has come to love me, in its solemn old brick way.”

“It was built by Kent in seventeen-forty for your great-great grandfather,” he explained.  He was regarding it more affectionately.  “Solid respectability was the dream, then.”

“I think that’s why I love it,” she said:  “for it’s dear, old-fashioned ways.  We will teach it the new dreams, too.  It will be so shocked, at first.”

They dined in state in the great dining-room.

“I was going to buy you a present,” he grumbled.  “But you wouldn’t let me get up.”

“I want to give you something quite expensive, Dad,” she said.  “I’ve had my eye on it for years.”

She slipped her hand in his.  “I want you to give me that Dream of yours; that you built for my mother, and that all went wrong.  They call it Allway’s Folly; and it makes me so mad.  I want to make it all come true.  May I try?”

* * * * *

It was there that he came to her.

She stood beneath the withered trees, beside the shattered fountain.  The sad-faced ghosts peeped out at her from the broken windows of the little silent houses.

She wondered later why she had not been surprised to see him.  But at the time it seemed to be in the order of things that she should look up and find him there.

She went to him with outstretched arms.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said.  “I was just wanting you.”

They sat on the stone step of the fountain, where they were sheltered from the wind; and she buttoned his long coat about him.

“Do you think you will go on doing it?” he asked, with a laugh.