was very indifferent as to the exact side he took upon the question, and quietly came round by saying:  ’To be sure, there is something fine in a man of Mr. Hale’s age leaving his home of twenty years, and giving up all settled habits, for an idea which was probably erroneous—­but that does not matter—­an untangible thought.  One cannot help admiring him, with a mixture of pity in one’s admiration, something like what one feels for Don Quixote.  Such a gentleman as he was too!  I shall never forget the refined and simple hospitality he showed to me that last day at Helstone.’

Only half mollified, and yet anxious, in order to lull certain qualms of his own conscience, to believe that Mr. Hale’s conduct had a tinge of Quixotism in it, Mr. Bell growled out—­’Aye!  And you don’t know Milton.  Such a change from Helstone!  It is years since I have been at Helstone—­but I’ll answer for it, it is standing there yet—­every stick and every stone as it has done for the last century, while Milton!  I go there every four or five years—­and I was born there—­yet I do assure you, I often lose my way—­aye, among the very piles of warehouses that are built upon my father’s orchard.  Do we part here?  Well, good night, sir; I suppose we shall meet in Harley Street to-morrow morning.’

CHAPTER XLV

NOT ALL A DREAM

’Where are the sounds that swam along
The buoyant air when I was young? 
The last vibration now is o’er,
And they who listened are no more;
Ah! let me close my eyes and dream.’ 
W. S. LANDOR.

The idea of Helstone had been suggested to Mr. Bell’s waking mind by his conversation with Mr. Lennox, and all night long it ran riot through his dreams.  He was again the tutor in the college where he now held the rank of Fellow; it was again a long vacation, and he was staying with his newly married friend, the proud husband, and happy Vicar of Helstone.  Over babbling brooks they took impossible leaps, which seemed to keep them whole days suspended in the air.  Time and space were not, though all other things seemed real.  Every event was measured by the emotions of the mind, not by its actual existence, for existence it had none.  But the trees were gorgeous in their autumnal leafiness—­the warm odours of flower and herb came sweet upon the sense—­the young wife moved about her house with just that mixture of annoyance at her position, as regarded wealth, with pride in her handsome and devoted husband, which Mr. Bell had noticed in real life a quarter of a century ago.  The dream was so like life that, when he awoke, his present life seemed like a dream.  Where was he?  In the close, handsomely furnished room of a London hotel!  Where were those who spoke to him, moved around him, touched him, not an instant ago?  Dead! buried! lost for evermore, as far as earth’s for evermore would extend.  He was an old man, so lately exultant in the full strength of manhood.  The utter loneliness of his life was insupportable to think about.  He got up hastily, and tried to forget what never more might be, in a hurried dressing for the breakfast in Harley Street.