I remember so well the frightful temper in which
I got into the train for Kent, and the even more frightful temper in which
I got out of it at the little station nearest to Okehurst. It was pouring
floods. I felt a comfortable fury at the thought that my canvases would get
nicely wetted before Mr. Oke's coachman had packed them on the top of the
waggonette. It was just what served me right for coming to this confounded
place to paint these confounded people. We drove off in the steady
downpour. The roads were a mass of yellow mud; the endless flat
grazing-grounds under the oak-trees, after having been burnt to cinders in
a long drought, were turned into a hideous brown sop; the country seemed
intolerably monotonous.
My spirits sank lower and lower. I began to meditate upon the modern Gothic
country-house, with the usual amount of Morris furniture, Liberty rugs, and
Mudie novels, to which I was doubtless being taken. My fancy pictured very
vividly the five or six little Okes--that man certainly must have at least
five children--the aunts, and sisters-in-law, and cousins; the eternal
routine of afternoon tea and lawn-tennis; above all, it pictured Mrs.
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