They were in London and it was an evening in early spring. There was a faint primrose glow in the sky and a blackbird was whistling at the end of the garden. The hum of the great town was as part of the silence of the room.
Now at last must come the moment when Christopher must speak plainly of his darling purpose that had been striving for expression these many months, that purpose which had grown out of a childish fancy in the long ago days when his mother and he toiled along the muddy wearisome roads, or wended painfully 139 through choking white dust under a blazing sun––
“Mother, how does roads get made here in the country, are they made like in London?”
“Yes, Jim, they were made somewhere by men, not over well, I think, for walkers such as we are.”
“I’ll make roads when I’m big,” announced Jim, “real good ones that you can walk on easily.”
So Christopher broke his purpose to Cæsar abruptly.
“I want to be a Road Engineer.”
“A what?”