"No," he said, "though that is standing still in green old age, and is well inhabited. I see, by the way, that you know your Thames well. But my friend Walter Allen, who asked me to stop here, lives in a house, not very big, which has been built here lately, because these meadows are so much liked, especially in summer, that there was getting to be rather too much of tenting in the open field; so the parishes here about, who rather objected to that, built three houses between this and Caversham, and quite a large one at Basildon, a little higher up.
Look, yonder are the lights of Walter Allen's house!"So we walked over the grass of the meadows under a flood of moonlight, and soon came to the house, which was low and built around a quadrangle big enough to get plenty of sunshine in it. Walter Allen, ****'s friend, was leaning against the jamb of the doorway waiting for us, and took us into the hall without overplus of words. There were not many people in it, as some of the dwellers there were away at the hay****** in the neighbourhood, and some, as Walter told us, were wandering about the meadow enjoying the beautiful moonlit night.
****'s friend looked to be a man of about forty; tall, black-haired, very kind-looking and thoughtful; but rather to my surprise there was a shade of melancholy on his face, and he seemed a little abstracted and inattentive to our chat, in spite of obvious efforts to listen.