Mr.Offord wasn't rich; he had nothing but his pension and the use for life of the somewhat superannuated house.
When I'm reminded by some opposed discomfort of the present hour how perfectly we were all handled there, I ask myself once more what had been the secret of such perfection.One had taken it for granted at the time, for anything that is supremely good produces more acceptance than surprise.I felt we were all happy, but Ididn't consider how our happiness was managed.And yet there were questions to be asked, questions that strike me as singularly obvious now that there's nobody to answer them.Mr.Offord had solved the insoluble; he had, without feminine help--save in the sense that ladies were dying to come to him and that he saved the lives of several--established a salon; but I might have guessed that there was a method in his madness, a law in his success.He hadn't hit it off by a mere fluke.There was an art in it all, and how was the art so hidden? Who indeed if it came to that was the occult artist? Launching this inquiry the other day I had already got hold of the tail of my reply.I was helped by the very wonder of some of the conditions that came back to me--those that used to seem as natural as sunshine in a fine climate.