“Hen’y Ivor! I see ’m sayin’ to ’mself: ‘What’ll they move on for!’ I see him, if y’ understand my meaning. Wha’sh he good for--Hen’y Ivor--only writer o’ books. Is he any better than me--no! Not ’s good, if you f-follow me. I see ’m thinkin’: ‘How can I get rid of ’m?’” He stood still suddenly, almost on Ivor’s toes. “Where’s dog--carry th’ dog--get ’is feet wet.” The woman stooped unsteadily, picked up the dog, and they both wavered on again. Ivor walked alongside now, grim and apprehensive. The man seemed to have become aware of him. “Mist’ Ivor,” he said. “Thought so--I’m not tight--can’t say better than that, can I?--I’m not writer of books like you--not plutocrat, if you understand my meaning. Want to ask you question: What would you do if you was me?” There was silence, but for the slip-slippering of the woman’s feet behind. “I don’ blame you,” said the man, whose speech was getting thicker; “you can’t help being a plutothrist. But whash the good of anything for me, except ob-oblivion, if you follow me?” A faint radiance shone through the mist. The station building loomed suddenly quite close. Ivor steered towards it. “Goin’ up t’ London,” said the man. “Qui’ right!” He lurched past into the lighted entry, and the woman followed with the dog. Ivor saw them waver through the doorway. And, spinning round, he ran into the mist. ‘Perfectly true!’ he thought while he was running. Perfectly true! Why had he helped them? What did he care so long as he got rid of man, woman, and dog? 1922. A LONG-AGO AFFAIR Hubert Marsland, the landscape painter, returning from a day’s sketching on the river in the summer of 1921, had occasion to stay the progress of his two-seater about ten miles from London for a minor repair, and while his car was being seen to, strolled away from the garage to have a look at a house where he had often spent his holidays as a boy. Walking through a gateway and passing a large gravel-pit on his left, he was soon opposite the house, which stood back a little in its grounds. Very much changed! More pretentious, not so homely as when his uncle and aunt lived there, and he used to play cricket on this warren opposite, where the cricket ground, it seemed, had been turned into a golf course. It was late--the dinner hour, nobody playing, and passing on to the links he stood digesting the geography. Here must have been where the old pavilion was. And there--still turfed--where he had made that particularly nice stroke to leg, when he went in last and carried his bat for thirteen. Thirty-nine years ago--his sixteenth birthday. How vividly he remembered his new pads! A. P. Lucas had played against them and only made thirty-two. One founded one’s style on A. P. Lucas in those days--feet in front of the bat, and pointed a little forward, elegant; you never saw it now, and a good thing too--one could sacrifice too much to style! Still, the tendency was all the other way; style was too much ‘off,’ perhaps!