e see,
you've never seen George and Christine, have you?" he asked at the end
of the recital.

Jimmy shook his head. "No, I have seven or eight unknown nephews and
nieces to inspect, or I'm not sure that it isn't nine. I've rather lost
count."

The elder man frowned slightly; it was not quite the thing to refer to
members of the family in that flippant way. Surely Jimmy could recollect
the number of his sister's children. He gave the tally of the latter,
with their names and ages, and with guarded comments on their
peculiarities, from which Jimmy gathered that they were decidedly
inferior to the little Walter Griersons. And after that there came a
pause, short in duration, certainly, but very significant. After ten
years' separation the brothers had exhausted their subjects of mutual
interest in little over ten minutes.

Jimmy fingered the cigarette case in his pocket, knowing the consolation
and the wisdom to be found in tobacco; but he did not like to produce
it, and he had already noted that Walter's room was innocent of any
ash-tray; so, instead, he racked his brains for a new topic of
conversation. At last:

"You're the sole partner here now, aren't you?" he asked.

Walter nodded. "Yes, Jardine died three years back, and I don't want
anyone else till I can take in Ralph, my eldest boy. He has a nasty
cold, or you would have seen him in the office." He shook his head, as
though at the thought of the dangerous after-effects of colds, and it
struck Jimmy that, for a man of forty-three or forty-four, Walter was
very old and stuffy. He, himself, often felt old and more than a little
weary, but in quite another way. He was not snuffly and solemn in
consequence; it was only that he knew his youth was slipping from him
fast, perhaps had already slipped from him, as is the case with every
European who stays too long in countries made for the coloured man, and
it irritated him to think that, if success ever did come to him, it
would probably be when he had lost the capacity for enjoyment.

"Have you made any plans for your future movements?" Walter asked
suddenly.

Jimmy started. "Well, yes--at least, last night I met an old friend of
mine, and he advised me to go in for writing. I've done a bit of it, of
course, and this man, Douglas Kelly--I expect you know his name." Walter
shook his head; he never read anything except the _Times_. "He's a man
who's made a big hit, and he knows what I can do. So I think of taking