Mr. Eversley still reasoned with himself. It might be that Gerald’s letters from St. Anselm’s had been less full or less regular than of old. Mr. Eversley reflected that more than once on a Tuesday morning he had walked as far as the green gate to meet the postman and there had been no letter. He had never complained of its absence. At one time Gerald had been so much occupied with his friend’s illness and recovery, then with the incidents of the summer term, then with his own competition for the Balliol scholarship; it was only natural that he should fail to write now and then. So Mr. Eversley reasoned, longing--good soul!--to persuade himself against himself. And yet would Gerald always have preferred his friend to his father? Would he have forfeited the Balliol scholarship if he had spent a few minutes on Sunday in writing home? Mr. Eversley sighed again. He had never complained of the absence of letters, but he thought of it now. Then he took several letters out of his desk and read them once more. What was it that he missed in them? He could not tell. He dared not tell. Time had been when every letter was full of allusions to the events and interests of Kestercham, its church, its sermons, its village festivals, the life of its people. The little world that was all in all to the father had been all in all to the son. Was it so now? In the letters which Mr. Eversley held in his hand there was not a word relating to Kestercham, except one sentence in which Gerald hoped that his father was not ‘growing tired of the village.’ But then the round of life at Kestercham was so unvarying that Gerald had made all the possible remarks upon it many times. Still the letters seemed to Mr. Eversley a little artificial, the compositions of one who wrote from a sense of duty, not the outpourings of a loving soul to its one best friend. Mr. Eversley put them back into his desk. He resolved to say nothing, but to watch his son more carefully in the holidays. It was near Christmas now. In a few days Gerald would be at home. When he arrived, the eager greeting with which he met the various members of his family, his apparent joy in being at Kestercham again, his modesty in receiving congratulations (for he had come out at the top of the school in the examination) relieved, if they did not dispel, Mr. Eversley’s anxiety. He seemed unaware that his letters had been less regular; he still spoke of writing home every week. He resumed the old life naturally. He did not indeed propose to go and see Mr. Seaford; but when Mr. Eversley asked him if he did not think of paying Mr. Seaford a visit, he went. Mr. Eversley thought he must have formed more acquaintances among his schoolfellows; for he mentioned a good many names which Mr. Eversley did not remember having heard before. It was on the fourth morning of the holidays that Gerald, coming down to breakfast a little late, found some letters lying on his plate. He began to read them.