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which are thought rather wicked in North America are regarded as normal in Europe. The thing is that, in a day or two, the Tollemarche Advent will wake up to the fact that you wrote it. There will be headlines – and I don’t think your parents are going to like them much.”
    Hank’s voice was sulky as he replied: “What do I care? I started to write it so as to shake them. They never cared about me, did they?”
    “They are going to care now.”
    “They’re about twenty years too late. Anyway, I did finally send it under a pen name – Ben MacLean – mostly to please you,” he said defensively. Then he added, with a sudden burst of frankness, “I reckoned the news would seep out anyway in time and cause them to lose plenty of sleep.”
    “I think in a place as small as Tollemarche it will come out,” she agreed.
    “Waal,” he drawled defiantly, “let it come out. That’s what I originally intended. Now, I don’t care either way, Isobel.”
    The use of her first name did not imply familiarity, as it would have done in England, though she had never really got used to being on a first-name basis with everyone; she was invariably disconcerted by this custom.
    She leaned forward to pick up a cigarette box. When she openedthe lid, it commenced to play a tinkling version of “The Bluebells of Scotland”. She offered him a cigarette from it.
    He was charmed by the tune and took the whole box from her while he listened; his face reflected an almost childlike absorption. This was the first time that he had been past the big covered back porch of her house, and everything was new and interesting.
    “Say, where did you get that?”
    “It belonged to my Welsh grandmother – she bought it in Edinburgh while she was on her honeymoon.” She enjoyed his obvious fascination with it, and it reminded her of another suggestion she wanted to make to him.
    “You know, Hank, if you really want to write for a living you should go to London and Edinburgh, go to Europe, too – perhaps try working for a newspaper or magazine. See something of life.”
    “I’ve seen plenty already,” he snapped, his face suddenly hardening, though basically he appreciated the personal interest which prompted her suggestion.
    She ignored his tone of voice and agreed with him.
    “You have in a way – but you know, there are other places than the Prairies and Jasper and Banff – and, by and large, the world isn’t very interested in books about Canada. You will need to branch out and – ”
    She stopped, anxious not to offend him. His presence kept at bay the pictures that danced through her mind, of Peter lying in the dust, her Peter who had, she realized suddenly, always had the same slightly defensive outlook that Hank had, of trying to forestall criticism.
    “The Bluebells of Scotland” had also stopped, and he put the box down slowly, his eyes turned thoughtfully towards her.
    “Branch out and…?” he asked.
    “Acquire a veneer of civilization,” she said unexpectedly, with a brutal honesty possible only with someone she regarded as an old friend.
    Impulsively she put her hand over his and said with passion: “You are going to have to deal with a smart, slick world, quick to ridicule those who do not understand its manners – a world where you want friends, not enemies. You can’t defy the world as you can your parents; you have to work with it a little – and be polite to it.”
    The hand under hers clenched on the settee cushion, his facewent red, and his eyes flashed such vindictive rage for a moment that she thought he would hit her, then he controlled himself, sitting silently by her on the settee, until she felt his hand gradually relax.
    “Hank,” she said rather hopelessly, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
    He slowly lifted the hand which had been clutching his, opened it and very gently implanted a kiss on its palm, and laughed when she gasped at the caress. She was too innocent, he thought.
    “I kiss the hand