He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. . . For although I must confess it reads very much like an application or a testimonial or some such thing as that, I can assure you I am writing this in fear and trembling with a sinking heart. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. Unless he can arise from the bottom of the Thames, where he and his abhorred father lie buried, you will never behold him again in this world.
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