over exclamations as to the horror or beauty or abomination of its actual presence.  There was as he once explained to me, “precious little time to waste.”  Those who thought him a dull, silent fellow—­and they were many—­made of course an almost ludicrous mistake, but most people in life are, I take it, too deeply occupied with their own personal history to do more than estimate at its surface value the appearance of others... but after all such a dispensation makes, in all probability for the general happiness....

On this present occasion Jerry Lawrence stood there exactly as I had seen him stand many times on the football field waiting for the referee’s whistle, his thick short body held together, his mouth shut and his eyes on guard.  He did not at first recognise me.

“You’ve forgotten me,” I said.

“I beg your pardon,” he answered in his husky good-natured voice, like the rumble of an amiable bull-dog.

“My name is Durward,” I said, holding out my hand.  “And years ago we had a mutual friend in Olva Dune.”

That pleased him.  He gripped my hand very heartily and smiled a big ugly smile.  “Why, yes,” he said.  “Of course.  How are you?  Feeling fit?  Damned long ago all that, isn’t it?  Hope you’re really fit?”

“Oh, I’m all right,” I answered.  “I was never a Hercules, you know.  I heard that you were here from Bohun.  I was going to write to you.  But it’s excellent that we should meet like this.”

“I was after young Bohun,” he explained.  “But it’s pleasant to find there’s another fellow in the town one knows.  I’ve been a bit at sea these two days.  To tell you the truth I never wanted to come.”  I heard a rumble in his throat that sounded like “silly blighters.”

“Come in,” I said.  “You must meet Madame Markovitch with whom Bohun is staying—­and then wait a bit.  He won’t be long, I expect.”

The idea of this seemed to fill Jerry with alarm.  He turned back toward the door.  “Oh!  I don’t think... she won’t want... better another time...” his mouth was filled with indistinct rumblings.

“Nonsense.”  I caught his arm.  “She is delightful.  You must make yourself at home here.  They’ll be only too glad.”

“Does she speak English?” he asked.

“No,” I answered.  “But that’s all right.”

He backed again towards the door.

“My Russian’s so slow,” he said.  “Never been here since I was a kid.  I’d rather not, really—­”

However, I dragged him in and introduced him.  I had quite a fatherly desire, as I watched him, that “he should make good.”  But I’m afraid that that first interview was not a great success.  Vera Michailovna was strange that afternoon, excited and disturbed as I had never known her, and I could see that it was only with the greatest difficulty that she could bring herself to think about Jerry at all.

And Jerry himself was so unresponsive that I could have beaten him.  “Why, you’re duller than you used to be,” I thought to myself, and wondered how I could have suspected, in those days, subtle depths and mysterious comprehensions.  Vera Michailovna asked him questions about France and London but, quite obviously, did not listen to his answers.