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house； he thought； would seem very dull without him。 On parting （for he had never yet liked to mention the subject）； he had the temerity to press his play upon the Death of Hercules upon the poet and ask his opinion of it。 The poet took it； muttered something about Glawr and Cicero； which Orlando cut short by promising to pay the pension quarterly； whereupon Greene； with many protestations of affection； jumped into the coach and was gone。
The great hall had never seemed so large； so splendid； or so empty as the chariot rolled away。 Orlando knew that he would never have the heart to make toasted cheese in the Italian fireplace again。 He would never have the wit to crack jokes about Italian pictures； never have the skill to mix punch as it should be mixed； a thousand good quips and cranks would be lost to him。 Yet what a relief to be out of the sound of that querulous voice； what a luxury to be alone once more； so he could not help reflecting； as he unloosed the mastiff which had been tied up these six weeks because it never saw the poet without biting him。
Nick Greene was set down at the corner of Fetter Lane that same afternoon； and found things going on much as he had left them。 Mrs Greene； that is to say； was giving birth to a baby in one room； Tom Fletcher was drinking gin in another。 Books were tumbled all about the floor； dinner—such as it was—was set on a dressing–table where the children had been making mud pies。 But this； Greene felt； was the atmosphere for writing； here he could write； and write he did。 The subject was made for him。 A noble Lord at home。 A visit to a Nobleman in the country—his new poem was to have some such title as that。 Seizing the pen with which his little boy was tickling the cat’s ears； and dipping it in the egg–cup which served for inkpot； Greene dashed off a very spirited satire there and then。 It was so done to a turn that no one could doubt that the young Lord who was roasted was Orlando； his most private sayings and doings； his enthusiasms and folies； down to the very colour of his hair and the foreign way he had of rolling his r’s； were there to the life。 And if there had been any doubt about it； Greene clinched the matter by introducing； with scarcely any disguise； passages from that aristocratic tragedy； the Death of Hercules； which he found as he expected； wordy and bombastic in the extreme。
The pamphlet； which ran at once into several editions； and paid the expenses of Mrs Greene’s tenth lying–in； was soon sent by friends who take care of such matters to Orlando himself。 When he had read it； which he did with deadly posure from start to finish； he rang for the footman； delivered the document to him at the end of a pair of tongs； bade him drop it in the filthiest heart of the foulest midden on the estate。 Then； when the man was turning to go he stopped him； ‘Take the swiftest horse in the stable；’ he said； ‘ride for dear life to Harwich。 There embark upon a ship which you will find bound for Norway。 Buy for me from the King’s own kennels the finest elk–hounds of the Royal strain； male and female。 Bring them back without delay。 For’； he murmured； scarcely above his breath as he turned to his books； ‘I have done with men。’
The footman； who was perfectly trained in his duties； bowed and disappeared。 He fulfilled his task so efficiently that he was back that day three weeks； leading in his hand a leash of the finest elk–hounds； one of whom； a female； gave birth that very night under the dinner–table to a litter of eight fine puppies。 Orlando had them brought to his bedchamber。
‘For’； he said； ‘I have done with men。’
Nevertheless； he paid the pension quarterly。
Thus； at the age of thirty； or thereabouts； this young Nobleman had not only had every experience that life has to offer； but had seen the worthlessness of them all。 Love and ambition； women and poets were all equally vain。 Literature was a farce。 The night after reading Greene’s Visit to a Nobleman in the Country； he burnt in a great conflagration fifty–seven poetical works； only retaining ‘The Oak Tree’； which was his boyish dream and very short。 Two things alone remained to him in which he now put any trust： dogs and nature； an elk–hound and a rose bush。 The world； in all its variety； life in all its plexity； had shrunk to that。 Dogs and a bush were the whole of it。 So feeling quit of a vast mountain of illusion； and very naked in consequence； he called his hounds to him and strode through the Park。
So long had he been secluded； writing and reading； that he had half forgotten the amenities of nature； which in June can be great。 When he reached that high mound whence on fine days half of England with a slice of Wales and Scotland thrown in can be seen； he flung himself under his favourite oak tree and felt that if he need never speak to another man or woman so long as he lived； if his dogs did not develop the faculty of speech； if he never met a poet or a Princess again； he might make out what years remained to him in tolerable content。
Here he came then； day after day； week after week； month after month； year after year。 He saw the beech trees turn golden and the young ferns unfurl； he saw the moon sickle and then circular； he saw—but probably the reader can imagine the passage which should follow and how every tree and plant in the neighbourhood is described first green； then golden； how moons rise and suns set； how spring follows winter and autumn summer； how night succeeds day and day night； how there is first a storm and then fine weather； how things remain much as they are for two or three hundred years or so； except for a little dust and a few cobwebs which one old woman can sweep up in half an hour； a conclusion which； one cannot help feeling； might have been reached more quickly by the simple statement that ‘Time passed’ （here the exact amount could be indicated in brackets） and nothing whatever happened。
But Time； unfortunately； though it makes animals and vegetables bloom and fade with amazing punctuality； has no such simple effect upon the mind of man。 The mind of man； moreover； works with equal strangeness upon the body of time。 An hour； once it lodges in the