its back and swung its head at the gate, lifting it over, and
scattering chickens as he landed. He galloped furiously away towards
the main dip, tank.
From the dining, room they heard the hooves beat away until they had
dwindled into silence. Garry stood up.
'Where are you going?' snapped Anna.
'To my study. ' 'To the brandy bottle in your study,' she corrected
him contemptuously.
'Don't, Anna.'
r'Don't, Anna, ' she mimicked him. 'Please don't, Anna. Is that all
You can say'? ' Her voice had lost the genteel inflexion she had
cultivated so carefully. Now it contained all the accumulated
bitterness of twenty years.
'Please, Anna. I'll stop him going. I promise you.'
'You'll stop him!' She laughed. 'How will you stop him?
Will you rattle your medals at him? How would you stop him you who
have never done one useful thing in all your life?'
She laughed again, shrilly. 'Why don't you show him your leg and
say,
'Please don't leave your poor crippled Daddy.' Garry drew himself up.
His face had gone very pale. 'He'll listen to me. He's my son.
Your son!
'Anna, please, ' 'Your son! Oh, that's choice! He's not your son.
He's Sean's son.' 'Anna. ' He tried to stop her.
'How could you have a son?' She was laughing again, and he could not
stand it. He started for the door but her voice followed him, cutting
into the two most sensitive places in his soul: his deformity and his
impotence.
He stumbled into his study, slammed the door and locked it.
Then he crossed quickly to the solid cabinet that stood beside his
desk.
He poured the tumbler half, full. and drank it. Then he sank into his
chair and closed his eyes and reached for the bottle behind him.
He poured again carefully and screwed the cap back on to the bottle.
This one he would sip slowly, making it last perhaps an hour. He had
learned how to keep the glow.
He unbuttoned and removed his tunic, stood up and hung it over the back
of the chair, seated himself once more, sipped at the tumbler, then
drew towards him the pile of handwritten sheets, and read the one on
top.
'Colenso: An account of the campaign in Natal under General Buller. '
By Colonel Garrick Courtney, VC D.S.O.
He lifted it, laid it aside, and began to read what followed.
Having read it so many times before, he had come to believe in it.
It was good. He knew it was good. So too did Messrs. William.
Heinemann in London, to whom he had sent a draft of the first two
chapters. They were anxious to publish as soon as possible.
He worked on quietly and happily all morning. At midday old Joseph
brought a meal to the study. Cold chicken and salads on Delft, ware
china, with a bottle of white Cape wine wrapped in a snowy napkin. He
