The Secret Places of the Heart — Inside the Classic

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Wells, H. G. (Herbert George), 1866-1946 Project Gutenberg 2006 Not confirmed
England -- Fiction; Psychological fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction Readers of public-domain and historical texts
Project Gutenberg digital edition en

Edition facts

Words 68,264
Reading time 297 min
Text sections 9

The Secret Places of the Heart — Inside the Classic can be approached with a clearer sense of reading commitment from its source measurements: 68,264 words, 4 hr 57 min estimated reading time, and 9 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 13.3 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “England -- Fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

An editorial note on H.G. Wells's 1922 novel, focusing on its conversational structure, shifts between clinical consultation and travelogue, and the evolving voice of Sir Richmond Hardy as he debates modernity with Dr. Martineau and Miss Grammont.
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Editorial Edition Score 4.7/5

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  • Description quality20 pts
  • Title & short description10 pts
  • Source metadata20 pts
  • Text length15 pts
  • Chapters / structure15 pts
  • EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

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5. IN THE LAND OF THE FORGOTTEN PEOPLES

6. THE ENCOUNTER AT STONEHENGE

9. THE LAST DAYS OF SIR RICHMOND HARDY

THE SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART

The maid was a young woman of great natural calmness; she was accustomed to let in visitors who had this air of being annoyed and finding one umbrella too numerous for them. It mattered nothing to her that the gentleman was asking for Dr. Martineau as if he was asking for something with an unpleasant taste. Almost imperceptibly she relieved him of his umbrella and juggled his hat and coat on to a massive mahogany stand. “What name, Sir?” she asked, holding open the door of the consulting room.

“Hardy,” said the gentleman, and then yielding it reluctantly with its distasteful three-year-old honour, “Sir Richmond Hardy.”

The door closed softly behind him and he found himself in undivided possession of the large indifferent apartment in which the nervous and mental troubles of the outer world eddied for a time on their way to the distinguished specialist. A bowl of daffodils, a handsome bookcase containing bound Victorian magazines and antiquated medical works, some paintings of Scotch scenery, three big armchairs, a buhl clock, and a bronze Dancing Faun, by their want of any collective idea enhanced rather than mitigated the promiscuous disregard of the room. He drifted to the midmost of the three windows and stared out despondently at Harley Street.

For a minute or so he remained as still and limp as an empty jacket on its peg, and then a gust of irritation stirred him.

“Damned fool I was to come here,” he said... “DAMNED fool!

“Rush out of the place?...

“I’ve given my name.”...

He heard the door behind him open and for a moment pretended not to hear. Then he turned round. “I don’t see what you can do for me,” he said.

“I’m sure _I_ don’t,” said the doctor. “People come here and talk.”

There was something reassuringly inaggressive about the figure that confronted Sir Richmond. Dr. Martineau’s height wanted at least three inches of Sir Richmond’s five feet eleven; he was humanly plump, his face was round and pink and cheerfully wistful, a little suggestive of the full moon, of what the full moon might be if it could get fresh air and exercise. Either his tailor had made his trousers too short or he had braced them too high so that he seemed to have grown out of them quite recently. Sir Richmond had been dreading an encounter with some dominating and mesmeric personality; this amiable presence dispelled his preconceived resistances.

Dr. Martineau, a little out of breath as though he had been running upstairs, with his hands in his trouser pockets, seemed intent only on disavowals. “People come here and talk. It does them good, and sometimes I am able to offer a suggestion.

“Talking to someone who understands a little,” he expanded the idea.

“I’m jangling damnably...overwork.....”

“Not overwork,” Dr. Martineau corrected. “Not overwork. Overwork never hurt anyone. Fatigue stops that. A man can work--good straightforward work, without internal resistance, until he drops,--and never hurt himself. You must be working against friction.”

“Friction! I’m like a machine without oil. I’m grinding to death.... And it’s so DAMNED important I SHOULDN’T break down. It’s VITALLY important.”

He stressed his words and reinforced them with a quivering gesture of his upraised clenched hand. “My temper’s in rags. I explode at any little thing. I’m RAW. I can’t work steadily for ten minutes and I can’t leave off working.”

“Your name,” said the doctor, “is familiar. Sir Richmond Hardy? In the papers. What is it?”

“Of course! The Fuel Commission. Stupid of me! We certainly can’t afford to have you ill.”

“I AM ill. But you can’t afford to have me absent from that Commission.”

“Your technical knowledge--”

H. G. Wells’s The Secret Places of the Heart opens not with a landscape or a crisis but with a man handing over his umbrella. That small, reluctant gesture—Sir Richmond Hardy yielding his coat and hat to a maid—sets the tone for a novel built around hesitation, confession, and the slow unburdening of a mind. The consulting room in Harley Street is described as a place where “nervous and mental troubles of the outer world eddied for a time,” and the narrative itself follows that eddying motion: from clinical interview to motor tour, from monologue to dialogue, from urban interiors to ancient landscapes.

A Consultation That Becomes a Conversation

The first chapter, “The Consultation,” establishes a pattern of asymmetrical exchange. Sir Richmond arrives resistant, calling himself a “damned fool” for coming, and expects a dominating specialist. Instead, Dr. Martineau is described as “reassuringly inaggressive”—a man whose trousers are too short, whose face suggests “what the full moon might be if it could get fresh air.” This deflation of expectation is typical of the novel’s method: it repeatedly undercuts the dramatic. The doctor’s reply—“People come here and talk”—is almost offhand, yet it frames the entire work. What follows is not a diagnosis but a series of conversations that drift between personal confession and abstract speculation. The narrative voice, closely aligned with Sir Richmond’s irritation and self-doubt, shifts as he begins to engage with Martineau’s quiet prompts. The opening sections are dominated by short, clipped sentences and internal objections, a rhythm that loosens as the journey begins.

The Shift to Travel and Dialogue

By the time Sir Richmond and Miss Grammont reach Salisbury, the prose has opened out. The earlier Harley Street scenes are tight, almost claustrophobic; the later passages are filled with light, flowers, and architectural description. A wrought-iron gate reveals “a delightful garden of spring flowers, alyssum, aubrietia, snow-upon-the-mountains, daffodils, narcissus.” The cathedral is called “a perfect little lady,” and the conversation turns to why humans built it. Here the novel’s voice changes again: Sir Richmond and Miss Grammont adopt a “freak of speaking and thinking as if he and she were all mankind,” a rhetorical game that allows Wells to weave social commentary into intimate banter. The dialogue becomes playful, speculative, and at times arch. Miss Grammont’s “half-closed eyes” and quizzical expressions signal a shift in power: she is no longer a patient or a companion but an equal interlocutor. The pace slows, allowing for extended exchanges about ambition, architecture, and the “sky-scraper spirit.”

Recurring Motifs and Structural Rhythms

Two recurring details anchor the novel’s shifting voice. The first is the umbrella: Sir Richmond’s opening irritation with “finding one umbrella too numerous” returns as a motif of discomfort with the ordinary. The second is the motif of forgetting. At Avebury, the characters cannot recall why the ditch is on the inside; at Salisbury, they struggle to remember why they built cathedrals. These lapses are not mere absent-mindedness—they become a structural device, a way of questioning inherited purpose. The narrative itself mimics this forgetfulness: it circles back to ideas, rephrases them, lets them drop. The nine chapters, each with a titled section, create a rhythm of departure and return. The novel does not accelerate toward a climax; instead, it accumulates conversations, each one slightly more candid than the last. The voice of Sir Richmond, initially brittle and defensive, gradually becomes more reflective, though never entirely at ease.

Readers attentive to shifts in register will notice that Wells uses the consulting room as a framing device but quickly abandons its clinical tone. The novel’s real interest lies in the space between formal confession and casual talk—the “secret places” of the title are not hidden traumas but the half-formed thoughts that emerge when two people drive through a landscape and let their guard down. Pay attention to who speaks first in each chapter, and how long it takes for the dialogue to move from practical matters to speculation. That rhythm is the novel’s quiet engine.

Reading about Sir Richmond Hardy’s restless consultations, I kept thinking how his searching conversations reminded me of another, lighter wanderer—one who also measured life through dialogue rather than destination. That old charm of romance as inquiry lingers. It made me quietly revisit The Quest of the Golden Girl: A Romance — A Reader’s Guide, where the pursuit itself feels just as tender and unresolved.

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