hard that he could still remember it. Out of this he was awakened by his
mother's voice:

"What _is_ the matter, Keith?"

"I don't know what to play," he replied out of policy, as it might bring
him something either in the way of a diversion or a treat. There were
still some of mother's delectable ginger snaps left over from the
Christmas baking.

"Your soldiers are right in front of you," his mother said in a voice
holding out no hope.

So Keith returned to the tin soldiers that were his most cherished
toys--perhaps because they drew fewer protests from above than anything
else, as being least conductive to outbursts of youthful vivacity.
Judging by the earnest attention with which he manoeuvred them on his
own little table or, in moments of special dispensation, on the
collapsible dining table placed against the wall between the two
windows in the living-room, he ought to have ended as a general.



III

All through his life Keith retained a queer inclination to arrange
furniture very precisely at right angles to the wall as close to it as
possible. It was a direct outcome of his first and most deeply rooted
impressions, received in that parental living-room, where every inch of
space had been carefully calculated, and where the smallest nook was