Four
Puffing¹ at his pipe, Colonel Race looked speculatively² at George Barton.
He had known George Barton ever since the latter’s boyhood. Barton’s
uncle had been a country neighbour of the Races. There was a difference
of over twenty years between the two men. Race was over sixty, a tall,
erect³, military figure, with sunburnt face, closely cropped iron-grey hair,
and shrewd dark eyes.
There had never been any particular intimacy⁴ between the two men—
but Barton remained to Race “young George”—one of the many vague fig-
ures associated with earlier days.
He was thinking at this moment that he had really no idea what “young
George” was like. On the brief occasions when they had met in later years,
they had found little in common. Race was an out-of-door man, essentially⁶
of the Empire- builder type — most of his life had been spent abroad.
George was emphatically the city gentleman. Their interests were dissim-
ilar and when they met it was to exchange rather lukewarm reminis-
cences of “the old days,” after which an embarrassed silence was apt to oc-
cur. Colonel Race was not good at small talk and might indeed have posed
as the model of a strong silent man so beloved by an earlier generation of
novelists.
Silent at this moment, he was wondering just why “young George” had
been so insistent⁷ on this meeting. Thinking, too, that there was some
subtle change in the man since he had last seen him a year ago. George
Barton had always struck him as the essence of stodginess⁸ — cautious,
practical, unimaginative.
There was, he thought, something very wrong with the fellow. Jumpy as
a cat. He’d already re-lit his cigar three times—and that wasn’t like Barton
at all.
He took his pipe out of his mouth.

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