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Whereas Willey Farm he
loved passionately. He loved the little pokey kitchen, where men's boots
tramped, and the dog slept with one eye open for fear of being trodden
on; where the lamp hung over the table at night, and everything was
so silent. He loved Miriam's long, low parlour, with its atmosphere of
romance, its flowers, its books, its high rosewood piano. He loved the
gardens and the buildings that stood with their scarlet roofs on the
naked edges of the fields, crept towards the wood as if for cosiness,
the wild country scooping down a valley and up the uncultured hills of
the other side. Only to be there was an exhilaration and a joy to him.
He loved Mrs. Leivers, with her unworldliness and her quaint cynicism;
he loved Mr. Leivers, so warm and young and lovable; he loved Edgar, who
lit up when he came, and the boys and the children and Bill--even the
sow Circe and the Indian game-cock called Tippoo. All this besides
Miriam. He could not give it up.
So he went as often, but he was usually with Edgar.


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