On that first night of leave for which they had been laying innumerable and contradictory plans, Fane-Herbert came into John’s room while he was dressing. He sat down on the bed.
“Do you know we are to have a great man to dinner to-night?”
“I thought you insisted that there should be no dinner-party?”
“So I did. This isn’t a party. He’s the only guest. My mother knows him very well, and, strangely enough, he appears to be an old friend of your mother’s. He heard you were going to be here to-night, and invited himself.”
“Who is he?”
“A novelist, a poet, a writer of biography; a very important person indeed. Can you guess? He has the Order of Merit, the only literary one except Thomas Hardy’s.”
“Wingfield Alter, of course. That’s rather terrifying. What is he like?”
“I haven’t met him for a long time. He used to give me shillings when I was a small boy, and tell me stories. But that was ten years ago; he may have changed since then. Margaret likes him, though, so I expect he is all right.” Fane-Herbert went to the door. “Shall I tell him you write poetry?” he asked laughingly as he went out.
“No; for the Lord’s sake don’t be a fool!”