One evening when I was engaged in composing a theme for Mr. Cheyne on no less a subject than the interpretation of the work of William Wordsworth, I found myself unexpectedly sprawling on the floor, in my descent kicking the table so vigorously as to send the ink-well a foot or two toward the ceiling.  This, be it known, was a typical proof of Jerry’s esteem.  For he had entered noiselessly, jerking the back of my chair, which chanced to be tilted, and stood with his hands in his pockets, surveying the ruin he had wrought, watching the ink as it trickled on the carpet.  Then he picked up the book.

“Poetry, you darned old grind!” he exclaimed disgustedly.  “Say, Parry, I don’t know what’s got into you, but I want you to come home with me for the Easter holidays.  It’ll do you good.  We’ll be on the Hudson, you know, and we’ll manage to make life bearable somehow.”

I forgot my irritation, in sheer surprise.

“Why, that’s mighty good of you, Jerry—­” I began, struggling to my feet.

“Oh, rot!” he exclaimed.  “I shouldn’t ask you if I didn’t want you.”

There was no denying the truth of this, and after he had gone I sat for a long time with my pen in my mouth, reflecting as to whether or not I should go.  For I had the instinct that here was another cross-roads, that more depended on my decision than I cared to admit.  But even then I knew what I should do.  Ridiculous not to—­I told myself.  How could a week or ten days with Jerry possibly affect my newborn, resolve?

Yet the prospect, now, of a visit to the Kymes’ was by no means so glowing as it once would have been.  For I had seen visions, I had dreamed dreams, beheld a delectable country of my very own.  A year ago—­nay, even a month ago—­how such an invitation would have glittered!...  I returned at length to my theme, over which, before Jerry’s arrival, I had been working feverishly.  But now the glamour had gone from it.

Presently Tom came in.

“Anyone been here?” he demanded.

“Jerry,” I told him.

“What did he want?”

“He wanted me to go home with him at Easter.”

“You’re going, of course.”

“I don’t know.  I haven’t decided.”

“You’d be a fool not to,” was Tom’s comment.  It voiced, succinctly, a prevailing opinion.

It was the conclusion I arrived at in my own mind.  But just why I had been chosen for the honour, especially at such a time, was a riddle.  Jerry’s invitations were charily given, and valued accordingly; and more than once, at our table, I had felt a twinge of envy when Conybear or someone else had remarked, with the proper nonchalance, in answer to a question, that they were going to Weathersfield.  Such was the name of the Kyme place....