"The young, light-haired Englishman was in bed, in his room at the Touraine, shortly after noon, when Major J. B. Pond arrived with a heavily built six-footer, smooth-shaven, dark-complexioned, a pair of merry black eyes, and a rather thick body encased in a raglan of dark gray.
"'Mr. Churchill, Mr. Churchill,' said the Major. The man on the bed turned over on his side and held out his hand.
"'I'm sorry to find that you are ill,' said the Churchill in the raglan, as he caught the outstretched hand.
"'Nothing serious, I guess,' said the other; 'been travelling, you know. But, I say, how came you by that name?'
"The author of 'Richard Carvel' smiled.
"'The first trace of it I can find in the family,' he said, 'is about 1851. It seems that there have been Winston Churchills over here for a good many years.'
"Then there was an exchange of bouquets. Winston Churchill said that he had always been looking forward with pleasure to a meeting with his namesake, and the other Churchill said something in the same strain.
"'I was interested when I read your first book,' said the Englishman. 'Didn't think a great deal of that book; but the other one, "Richard Carvel," I was willing to become responsible for that.'
"Then it developed that each had been responsible for the other to a greater or less extent. For this reason it was inevitable that they should meet."