it was not till after dinner that night that general carden opened the book. he was then sitting in a large and comfortable armchair in his study. a shaded electric lamp stood on a table at his elbow, and he was experiencing the sense of well-being of a man who has just partaken of a most excellently cooked dinner.

he fixed his gold-rimmed glasses on his finely chiselled nose and opened the book, though with but faint anticipation of interest. after a page or two, however, he became absorbed, almost fascinated. the writing appealed to him; it was pleasant, cultured. there were here and there some very neatly turned phrases. and then, quite suddenly, one paragraph arrested his attention. it was in itself a quite insignificant little paragraph and merely descriptive. here it is, however:

“near one corner of the house, grey-walled, weather-beaten, stood a great pear-tree, its branches almost touching the diamond-shaped panes of the narrow window—the window of the octagon room which held for him so many memories. in spring-time the tree was a mass of [pg 66]snowy blossoms, and among their delicate fragrance a blackbird sang his daily matins. later in the year the tree would be full of fruit, many of which fell to the ground, and, bruising in the fall, would fill the air with a sweet and almost sickly scent. in the trunk of the tree was a small shield-shaped patch, where the bark had been torn away, and the initials r. and j. cut in the smooth underwood. they belonged, so the boy had been told, to the twin brothers, whose gallant history had fascinated him from childhood.”

general carden paused. there was a look of dim pain in his blue eyes. after a moment he re-read the passage carefully, and with infinitely more attention than the few sentences would appear to merit. then he turned to the title-page and read the name of the author. apparently it told him nothing he desired to know, and he continued his reading. much farther on he came to another paragraph at which he again paused abruptly.

“‘cricket,’ said the young man airily, ‘is a universal game, and means, speaking in general terms, the avoidance of anything which—well, hints of meanness or unfair play to our neighbours.’ they were his father’s exact words, and he knew it. at the moment, however, he chose to make them his own.”

general carden put down the book. his hands were shaking slightly. he told himself he was an old fool. hundreds of fathers had used those words to their sons. they represented the first principle learnt by an englishman. but then, there was the pear-tree, the shield-shaped wound in its bark, the initials, the old weather-beaten house. memory began to exert her sway. he was sitting in a study window watching a tall, slim woman as she laughed at a thin slip of a boy climbing, monkey-like, among the branches of the old tree. he could hear the very sound of her laugh and the exultant ring of the boy’s voice.

he pulled himself together. that house—the old place down in the country—was in the hands of caretakers. it did not do to think about the past at his time of life. he was certainly perturbed to use that phrase. he turned to the address of the publishers, then glanced at the telephone on his writing-desk and from it to the clock. the hands pointed to ten minutes to ten. of course, it was too late to ring up a business [pg 68]house, much too late. besides, pseudonyms were sacred to publishers, or should be. quite possibly, too, it was not a pseudonym. it was absurd that he should suppose that it was. it was a good book, however, a very good book. he should like to see what the reviews had to say about it. it was always interesting to hear public opinion on a good book; and, to a certain extent, reviewers constituted the public. there were places—he had heard of them—where reviews were collected. he must find out the name of one of them. yes; he would like to see whether the reviewers did not endorse his own opinion. he would tell mrs. cresswell he had appreciated her recommendation. possibly he would write a note to-morrow and tell her. it would please her to hear that he had liked the book she had advised him to read.

and then another thought struck him, and he sat suddenly upright. had not she once seen that pear-tree—once, long ago? surely she, too, did not think—did not guess——

he would not write to her after all. tuesday would be time enough to tell her that he thought the book—yes, quite fairly promising for a new author. fairly promising, that was the expression.