Ponto's house ('The Evergreens' Mrs. P. has christened it) is a perfect
Paradise of a place. It is all over creepers, and bow-windows,
and verandahs. A wavy lawn tumbles up and down all round it, with
flower-beds of wonderful shapes, and zigzag gravel walks, and beautiful
but damp shrubberies of myrtles and glistening laurustines, which have
procured it its change of name. It was called Little Bullock's Pound
in old Doctor Ponto's time. I had a view of the pretty grounds, and the
stable, and the adjoining village and church, and a great park beyond,
from the windows of the bedroom whither Ponto conducted me. It was the
yellow bedroom, the freshest and pleasantest of bed-chambers; the air
was fragrant with a large bouquet that was placed on the writing-table;
the linen was fragrant with the lavender in which it had been laid; the
chintz hangings of the bed and the big sofa were, if not fragrant with
flowers, at least painted all over with them; the pen-wiper on the table
was the imitation of a double dahlia; and there was accommodation for my
watch in a sun-flower on the mantelpiece. A scarlet-leaved creeper came
curling over the windows, through which the setting sun was pouring a
flood of golden light. It was all flowers and freshness. Oh, how unlike
those black chimney-pots in St. Alban's Place, London, on which these
weary eyes are accustomed to look.
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