sun came out, and struck on the white ramparts of the dell.
Rickie looked straight at it. Then he said abruptly--

"I think I want to talk."

"I think you do," replied Ansell.

"Shouldn't I be rather a fool if I went through Cambridge without
talking? It's said never to come so easy again. All the people
are dead too. I can't see why I shouldn't tell you most things
about my birth and parentage and education."

"Talk away. If you bore us, we have books."

With this invitation Rickie began to relate his history. The
reader who has no book will be obliged to listen to it.

Some people spend their lives in a suburb, and not for any urgent
reason. This had been the fate of Rickie. He had opened his eyes
to filmy heavens, and taken his first walk on asphalt. He had
seen civilization as a row of semi-detached villas, and society
as a state in which men do not know the men who live next door.
He had himself become part of the grey monotony that surrounds
all cities. There was no necessity for this--it was only rather
convenient to his father.

Mr. Elliot was a barrister. In appearance he resembled his son,
being weakly and lame, with hollow little cheeks, a broad white
band of forehead, and stiff impoverished hair. His voice, which
he did not transmit, was very suave, with a fine command of