imperious tilt of her head which made her seem almost five-and-a-half.

"I'm Mary," she said.

He wanted to say that he was John, but could not. He stood there
tongue-tied.

"I love you," she went on.

His heart beat tumultuously. He felt suffocated. He longed to say, "So do
I," but was afraid that it was not good English. Even then he knew that
he must be a writer when he grew up.

She leant forward and kissed him. He realized suddenly that he was in
love. The need for self-expression was strong upon him. Shyly he brought
out his last acid-drop and shared it with her. He had never seen her
since, but even now, twenty years after, he could not eat an acid-drop
without emotion, and a whole bag of them brought the scene back so
visibly as to be almost a pain.

Yes, he was to be a writer; there could be no doubt about that. Everybody
had noticed it. The Vicar had said, "Johnny will never do any good at
Polwollop, I fear"; and the farmer for whom John scared rooks had said,
"Thiccy la-ad seems daft-like," and one after another of Mrs. Penquarto's
friends had given similar testimony. And now here he was, at twenty-six,
in the little bed-sitting-room in Bloomsbury, ready to write the great
novel which should take London by storm. Polwollop seemed a hundred years
away.

Feverishly he seized pen and paper and began