the room was to my liking, approved my taste. At our midday
dinner she wanted to discuss books with me, and was so full of her
own knowledge that I was able to conceal my ignorance.

'We are all labouring to express our personalities,' she
informed me. 'Have you found your medium, Mr Brand? is it to be
the pen or the pencil? Or perhaps it is music? You have the brow of
an artist, the frontal "bar of Michelangelo", you remember!'

I told her that I concluded I would try literature, but before
writing anything I would read a bit more.

It was a Saturday, so jimson came back from town in the early
afternoon. He was a managing clerk in some shipping office, but
you wouldn't have guessed it from his appearance. His city clothes
were loose dark-grey flannels, a soft collar, an orange tie, and a
soft black hat. His wife went down the road to meet him, and
they returned hand-in-hand, swinging their arms like a couple of
schoolchildren. He had a skimpy red beard streaked with grey, and mild
blue eyes behind strong glasses. He was the most friendly creature
in the world, full of rapid questions, and eager to make me feel one
of the family. Presently he got into a tweed Norfolk jacket, and
started to cultivate his garden. I took off my coat and lent him a
hand, and when he stopped to rest from his labours - which was
every five minutes, for he had no kind of physique - he would mop
his brow and rub his spectacles and declaim about the good smell
of the earth and the joy of getting close to Nature.

Once he looked at my big brown hands and muscular arms with
a kind of wistfulness. 'You are one of the doers, Mr Brand,' he said,