I felt from the first I was going to like him. He is shy, and that, of course, makes him appear awkward. But, as I explained to Robina, it is the shy young men who, generally speaking, turn out best: few men could have been more painfully shy up to twenty-five than myself. Robina said that was different: in the case of an author it did not matter. Robina’s attitude towards the literary profession would not annoy me so much were it not typical. To be a literary man is, in Robina’s opinion, to be a licensed idiot. It was only a week or two ago that I overheard from my study window a conversation between Veronica and Robina upon this very point. Veronica’s eye had caught something lying on the grass. I could not myself see what it was, in consequence of an intervening laurel bush. Veronica stooped down and examined it with care. The next instant, uttering a piercing whoop, she leapt into the air; then, clapping her hands, began to dance. Her face was radiant with a holy joy. Robina, passing near, stopped and demanded explanation. “Pa’s tennis racket!” shouted Veronica—Veronica never sees the use of talking in an ordinary tone of voice when shouting will do just as well. She continued clapping her hands and taking little bounds into the air. “Well, what are you going on like that for?” asked Robina. “It hasn’t bit you, has it?” “It’s been out all night in the wet,” shouted Veronica. “He forgot to bring it in.” “You wicked child!” said Robina severely. “It’s nothing to be pleased about.” “Yes, it is,” explained Veronica. “I thought at first it was mine. Oh, wouldn’t there have been a talk about it, if it had been! Oh my! wouldn’t there have been a row!” She settled down to a steady rhythmic dance, suggestive of a Greek chorus expressing satisfaction with the gods. Robina seized her by the shoulders and shook her back into herself. “If it had been yours,” said Robina, “you would deserve to have been sent to bed.” “Well, then, why don’t he go to bed?” argued Veronica. Robina took her by the arm and walked her up and down just underneath my window. I listened, because the conversation interested me. “Pa, as I am always explaining to you,” said Robina, “is a literary man. He cannot help forgetting things.” “Well, I can’t help forgetting things,” insisted Veronica. “You find it hard,” explained Robina kindly; “but if you keep on trying you will succeed. You will get more thoughtful. I used to be forgetful and do foolish things once, when I was a little girl.” “Good thing for us if we was all literary,” suggested Veronica. “If we ‘were’ all literary,” Robina corrected her. “But you see we are not. You and I and Dick, we are just ordinary mortals. We must try and think, and be sensible. In the same way, when Pa gets excited and raves—I mean, seems to rave—it’s the literary temperament. He can’t help it.” “Can’t you help doing anything when you are literary?” asked Veronica.