“ Eh!” I cried—for I had been thinking of remote things.
“ I got it.”
“ Got what?”
“ For a house!—a Twentieth Century house! That’s the place for it!”
One of his characteristic phrases was begotten in him.
“ Four-square to the winds of heaven, George!” he said. “Eh? Four-square to the winds of heaven!”
“ You’ll get the winds up here,” I said.
“ A mammoth house it ought to be, George—to suit these hills.”
“ Quite,” I said.
“ Great galleries and things—running out there and there—See? I been thinking of it, George! Looking out all this way—across the Weald. With its back to Lady Grove.”
“ And the morning sun in its eye.”
“ Like an eagle, George,—like an eagle!”
So he broached to me what speedily became the leading occupation of his culminating years, Crest Hill. But al
