The beech foliage was just beginning to turn faint golden. Here and there a leaf fell. A brown squirrel scampering up a branch of a tree close in front of them, suddenly halted and watched them, as though wondering why the two humans sat so still and depressed on that mellow autumn afternoon. The sun was slanting warmly through the leaves. The beech-mast, young and tender, provided infinity of food beyond the dreams of gluttony. Never an enemy menaced the exquisite demesne. God was in His heaven, and all was right with the world. What in the name of Nature was there to worry these two humans? Well, it was no business of his, and he had enough business of his own to attend to. He glanced aside, and his quick eyes spotting a field-mouse at the base of a neighbouring tree, he darted off, a streak of brown lightning, in pursuit. Presently Godfrey spoke, digging in front of him with his rubber-shod crutch. “To be interested in a legendary sort of father is one thing. There’s imagination and romance and atmosphere about it. But it’s another thing to have this same father burst on one in flesh and blood—and such a lot of flesh and blood! Now a venerable, white-haired old sinner, with a pathetic, intellectual face, might appeal to one’s sentiment. But this new father of mine doesn’t. I may be unnatural, Marcelle, but he doesn’t. Mind you, I’ve no grouch against him. Not a bit. I’m convinced he thought he was doing right to everybody. When he learned that I existed, he was struck all of a heap. He lost no time in tracking me down. He’s actuated by the best motives. . . . All the same, I can’t rise to it. The more he tried to make an appeal, the more antagonistic I grew. It’s beyond explanation.” “You’ll learn to love him,” said Marcelle loyally, yet without conviction. “He’s a splendid man.” “He’ll want to run me. Now I’ve run myself all my life. So I’ll not stand for it. He’ll want to run you too. You know it, Marcelle. That’s why you’ve been sitting here feeling lonely and defenceless.” She laughed ruefully. “I suppose it is.” “The way he clawed hold of you and dragged you out——” “That’s the way he clawed hold of himself and dragged himself out, remember,” replied Marcelle. “A queer devil!” said Godfrey. “Do you know what he suggests to me? A disconnected dynamo.” He laughed. “He ought to be hitched on to the war. He’d buck it up.” CHAPTER XIV