interesting to the public, Sanbourne would
think it hateful. If a journalist had caught him unawares, he would be
distressed to find his privacy so violated; and Eversedge Sibley did
not want Sanbourne to be distressed. Consequently he did not forward
the supplement, nor the cutting his firm afterwards received of it; and
as no one else thought of sending, Sanbourne continued peacefully to
forget his morning visit from a journalist. Even the fact that he was
stared at in the street more intently than he had been at first, when
an errand took him into town, did not remind him of the call or cause
him to put two and two together. He did not indeed know that he was
being stared at. He did not look much at people, because he did not
wish to be looked at. And his thoughts were more for the place and the
scenery which Barbara had loved and he was learning to love than for
his fellow creatures, who seemed infinitely remote from him.

"How wonderful that that John Sanbourne who wrote 'The War Wedding'
should be here, and none of us even dare try to get to know him!" some
women said, when they had seen extracts from Reid's "study" in
newspapers they took in. These women thought Sanbourne's scars actually
attractive. Others announced that they didn't believe the man _was_ the
real John Sanbourne. There must be some mistake. _This_ one didn't look
like a gentleman. At least his clothes didn't. And _anybody_ could
pretend to be John Sanbourne if they liked. Lots of frauds did that
sort of thing when a novel by an unknown author made a great success.

John Sanbourne felt richer with his new check and the astonishing
prospect held out by Sibley than Sir John Denin had ever felt at
Gorston Old Hall with his big income. But his one extravagance was to
buy some books and shelves to put them on. In that way he soon
collected all his old, best friends around him; for that was the one
joy of having books for friends. No matter where you went, you could
always send for them and have them with you. You could never be
entirely alone in the world.

When the time came that Denin might receive a letter from Barbara, he
tried not to think of it. He said to himself that he knew it would not
come, that he ought not to want it to come, that if it did come, it
would only prolong the agony. He read hard, and worked hard in the
garden, and took long walks, though he limped slightly still, for he
was losing the worst of his lameness and might actually