Then the inner door opened abruptly. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. The unequal battle went on. A familiar figure was making his way towards them. "Your sympathy is being wasted. A wide terrace then led to large iron gates,' over which were placed the two celebrated figures of Raving and Melancholy Madness, executed by the elder Cibber, and commemorated by Pope in the Dunciad, in the wellknown lines:— "Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, Where, o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand, Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand. He dared not go on. He nodded silently, too full for words. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Not a word passed between them. There’s always friction, conflict, unwilling concessions. Mind, I am anticipating events. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable.
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