tormenting, valuing Derrick's devotion as conducive to his own
comfort, and knowing that hard words would not drive him from what
he deemed to be his duty. I rather incline to the latter view, but
the old Major was always an enigma to me; nor can I to this day make
out his raison-d'etre, except on the theory that the training of a
novelist required a course of slow torture, and that the old man was
sent into the world to be a sort of thorn in the flesh of Derrick.

What with the disappointment about his first book, and the
difficulty of writing his second, the fierce craving for Freda's
presence, the struggle not to allow his admiration for Lawrence's
bravery to become poisoned by envy under the influence of the
Major's incessant attacks, Derrick had just then a hard time of it.
He never complained, but I noticed a great change in him; his
melancholy increased, his flashes of humour and merriment became
fewer and fewer--I began to be afraid that he would break down.

"For God's sake!" I exclaimed one evening when left alone with the
Doctor after an evening of whist, "do order the Major to London.
Derrick has been mewed up here with him for nearly two years, and I
don't think he can stand it much longer."

So the Doctor kindly contrived to advise the Major to consult a
well-known London physician, and to spend a fortnight in town,
further suggesting that a month at Ben Rhydding might be enjoyable
before settling down at Bath again for the winter. Luckily the
Major took to the idea, and just as Lawrence returned from the war
Derrick and his father arrived in town. The change seemed likely to
work well, and I was able now and then to release my friend and play
cribbage with the old man for an hour or two while Derrick tore