"I abandoned my work-shop," pursued Colin Camber, "when the--er--the
new tenant took up his residence. I work now in the room in which you
found me this morning."
He sighed, and turning abruptly, led the way back to the house, holding
himself very erect, and presenting a queer figure in his threadbare
dressing gown.
It was now a perfect summer's day, and I commented upon the beauty of
the old garden, which in places was bordered by a crumbling wall.
"Yes, a quaint old spot," said Camber. "I thought at one time, because
of the name of the house, that it might have been part of a monastery
or convent. This was not the case, however. It derives its name from a
certain Sir Jaspar Guest, who flourished, I believe, under King Charles
of merry memory."
"Nevertheless," I added, "the Guest House is a charming survival of
more spacious days."
"True," returned Colin Camber, gravely. "Here it is possible to lead
one's own life, away from the noisy world," he sighed again wearily.
"Yes, I shall regret leaving the Guest House."
"What! You are leaving?"
"I am leaving as soon as I can find another residence, suited both to
my requirements and to my slender purse.
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