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CHAPTER ONE

vein of humour'; there were passages in it which The Times itself could describe as `not unamusintr'; but Reginald had fallen too much in love with his characters, even before the frost had killed his dahlias, to leave them with no deeper roots than this. They had become living, emotional people to him; so much so, indeed, that at times the inter-play of emotion between them would land him into scenes rightly adjudged by the Saturday Review as `not without pathos', and by the Morning Post as `not lacking in a certain pleasing sentiment'. But, of course, Reginald did not know about this until later. Through the autumn and winter he was merely telling himself that it was `not bad'. It is curious how easi-ly aa book comes to be described in terms of the things which it isn't.

II
`Dear Sir,' wrote Mr. Albert Pump, `I am very interested in your story "Bindweed", and if you can make it convenient to call upon me at 3 o'clock any afternoon I shall be glad to discuss it with you.'
So Reginald Wellard made it convenient on Thursday. He put his tall, lean figure, with the permanent wave in it, into his other pair of trousers, he brushed, more carefully than usual, his unruly hair, he kissed Sylvia goodbye and then came back to kiss her again, he climbed into a car two sizes too small for him, tried to start it without turning on the petrol, and (subsequently) without switching on the engine, and (subsequently again) without taking off the brake, and then, having caught the 11-3 (which runs on Sundays only) by a triumphant thirty seconds, sat down in Little Malling station to wait, with an automatic machine to keep him company, until the 12-5 should be ready for him. Was this the man to