General Carden, V.C., C.B., D.S.O., was sitting at breakfast in his house in Sloane Street. He was not a young man—in fact, he had just passed his seventy-seventh birthday—but there was about him an air of trim spruceness, an uprightness that many a younger man might have envied. His height in his stockinged feet was exactly six feet one. He was handsome, too, with his fine aquiline features, his snow-white hair, and his drooping moustache. His blue eyes, under shaggy eyebrows, were perhaps a trifle faded from the colour of their youth, yet they struck a very decided note in contrast to his face, which was like old ivory, and to the pallor of his hair.  
A little pile of letters lay on the table beside him, also a small silver paper-knife. Ten minutes previously he had cut the envelopes with careful precision and glanced through the contents. Apparently he had found in them little of interest, and now his attention was entirely absorbed by a couple of frizzled rolls of bacon on the plate before him.
 
The door opened noiselessly and the butler entered. He carried a tray on which was a plate, and on the plate was a small brown egg in a silver egg-cup. General Carden was somewhat particular as to the size and colour of the eggs of which he partook. The butler placed the plate on the table, then stood in an attitude suggestive of military attention.
 
“Any orders for the car, sir? Alcott is here, sir.”
 
“The car at eleven,” said General Carden, still busy with the bacon. “And, Goring, see that those library books are put in.”
 
“Very good, sir. Is that all, sir?”
 
“Yes; nothing else.”
 
The butler withdrew, and General Carden continued his breakfast. Marmalade and a second cup of coffee followed the egg. General Carden made a good deal of the fact that he [Pg 54]enjoyed his breakfast. It was to him a sign that old age was not yet encroaching.
 
Breakfast over, he crossed the hall to a small study, where he took a cigarette from a silver box and lighted it. Then he sat down in a chair near the window with the morning paper. It seldom afforded him much satisfaction, however. England, in his opinion, was going to the dogs, and it only annoyed him to see the printed record of its progress towards that deplorable end.
 
After a few moments he threw the paper from him with a faintly muttered “Damn it, sir!” He had seen that in a by-election a seat had been won by one of the Labour party.
 
“Going to the dogs, sir; entirely to the dogs!” he muttered. And then he looked out of the window at the people in the street, which street was bathed in May sunshine.
 
The gardens opposite looked extraordinarily green and spring-like, and nurses with perambulators and children of various sizes were passing along the pavement by the iron railings. They and the sunshine struck a very definite note of buoyancy and youth, and for a moment General Carden felt not entirely as young as he could wish. [Pg 55]The room seemed a little lonely, and the house rather large for one occupant—servants, naturally, did not count. General Carden did not exactly express this thought to his mind in words. He was not a man given to sentimentality either in thought or speech. It was merely represented by a little indefinite and not very pleasant impression. He wheeled his chair round to his writing-desk, which he unlocked, and began looking through various letters with a show of businesslike energy.
 
Some half-hour or so later he appeared in the hall. The butler was there already with an overcoat, a silk hat, and an air of reserved dignity. He put General Carden into the overcoat and handed him the hat.
 
“Have you put the books in the car?” asked General Carden.
 
“Yes, sir,” replied Goring. There was the faintest suspicion of reproof in the reply.
 
“Ah! yes, of course, of course; I mentioned it at breakfast.” General Carden took up his gloves and passed into the sunshine down the steps, an upright figure in grey overcoat, white spats, and hat shining glossily in the light.
 
“Good morning, Alcott; the car running well?”
 
“First rate, sir.”
 
“That’s right; that’s right. You can take a turn in the Park and afterwards go to Mudie’s.”
 
“Very good, sir.”
 
General Carden got in, and the car purred gently up the street.
 
He settled himself comfortably into a corner, and glanced at the books on the seat opposite to him. He had a subscription at Mudie’s, and kept himself thoroughly up in the present-day novel. He did not care to hear a new book mentioned and have to allow that he had not read it. Of course, the present-day literature could not compare with that of the older novelists—that was hardly to be expected. Scott, Dickens, Thackeray—he ran through them in his mind—where was the writer of the moment who could compare with them? Who could touch the romance of Scott, the humour of Dickens, the courtliness of Thackeray? Where was there a man in present fiction able to stand beside the fine old figure of General Newcome? No; romance, humour, courtliness, had vanished, and in their place were divorce accounts, ragging—an appalling [Pg 57]word,—and suffragettes. The world was not what it had been in his young days. He did not, however, express this opinion blatantly; to do so would have savoured of old-fogyism. Oh, no; he flattered himself he kept abreast of the times, and only deplored certain modern innovations, as they were deplored by all those who still held to the fragments of refinement and courtliness that remained in the world.
 
As the car turned into the Park, General Carden sat rather more upright. He watched the carriages and their occupants with attention, his old eyes keen to observe and note any of them he knew. And when he did, off came that glossy silk hat with a bow and a gesture worthy of a courtier. However much abreast of the times he might choose to consider himself, in his heart he knew he was of the old school, and one even older than that of his own youth. He belonged, this courtly old man, to the delightful old school where men treated women with chivalry and protection, and where women in their turn accepted these things with delicate grace and charm; where conversation had meant a pretty display of wit, a keen fencing of words, where brusquerie was a thing unknown; and where a fine and subtle irony had stood in the place of a certain curt rudeness noticeable in the present day. Yet all that was of the past. It would be as out of place now as would be one of those dainty ladies of old years, in powder and brocade, among the tight-skirted women in Bond Street. But very deep down in his heart General Carden knew it was the school which he loved, and of which he allowed himself occasionally to dream. Those dreams were dreamt mainly on winter evenings in a chair before the study fire. And then, very surreptitiously, General Carden would bring a tiny gold box from his pocket—a dainty octagon box with an exquisite bit of old enamel, blue as a sapphire, let into the lid—and, opening it, he would take an infinitesimal pinch of brown powder between his first finger and thumb. He was always most extremely careful that no single grain of it should fall on his white shirt-front. Goring’s eyes were at times unaccountably sharp. He was not going to be caught snuff-taking by a man who might look upon it as a sign of old age advancing. The little gold box, when not on his own person, was kept locked in a small antique cabinet in his dressing-room.
 
Apparently there were many people in the Park that morning whom General Carden knew. A big car hummed past with a small woman in it, a woman who looked almost tiny in the car’s capacious depths. She had a pointed little face and masses of fair hair. Off came General Carden’s hat. This was Muriel Lancing. He had known her as Muriel Grey, when she was a small girl in short skirts. She had married a certain Tommy Lancing a refreshing young man with red hair and freckles and a comfortable private income. General Carden’s eyes smiled at the girl. In spite of a certain airy up-to-dateness, he liked her. She was so dainty, so piquante, and such an inscrutable mixture of child, woman of the world, and elfin. One never knew which of the three might not appear on the surface. Also he liked Tommy, who always contrived to put a certain air of deference into his manner towards the General, which secretly pleased that critical white-haired, old veteran immensely.
 
After a few moments he saw another of his friends, and again the hat came off, this time with perhaps even something more of courtliness. The woman in the victoria was very nearly a contemporary [Pg 60]his. Quite a contemporary, General Carden reflected—ignoring the fifteen years which lay between them, and which were, it must be stated, to the advantage of Mrs. Cresswell. She was a woman with white hair rolled high, somewhat after the style of a Gainsborough portrait, and a clear-cut aristocratic face. She belonged unquestionably to his school, and their conversations were an invariable delicate sword-play of words. Even if she were generally the victor—and in the art of conversation he was willing to concede her the palm—yet he flattered himself he was no mean opponent, and he had a pleasurable memory of some very pretty turns of repartee on his own part. She was a friend of long standing, and one he valued.
 
Next came a much younger woman in a car, with a small boy beside her. This was Millicent Sheldon; the boy was her nephew. General Carden’s blue eyes were a little hard as he observed her, and there was just a suspicion of stiffness in his arm as he raised his hat. She responded with a slightly frigid bow, her face entirely immovable. There were reasons—most excellently good reasons—why there was a certain chilliness between these [Pg 61]two. They need not, however, be recorded at the moment.
 
Many other carriages and cars passed whose occupants General Carden knew, also a few foot-passengers, grey-haired veterans like himself, who walked upright and rather stiff, or younger men slightly insouciant of manner.
 
As his car was turning out of the Park another carriage turned in. In it was a young woman and an older one—much older; in fact, rather dried up and weather-beaten. This time General Carden did not raise his hat, though he observed the two women with interest. He had frequently noticed the carriage and its occupants during his morning drives in the Park. The younger woman attracted him. It was not merely the fact that she was beautiful, but there was an air of distinction about her, a well-bred distinguished air, that appealed to this old critic of women and manners. The men on the box wore cockades in their hats and plum-coloured livery. There was also a tiny coronet on the panel of the carriage door. In spite of the fact that General Carden’s sight was not entirely what it once had been, he noticed the coronet. He noticed, too, that the woman’s hair was black with [Pg 62]blue lights in it, that her skin was a pale cream, and her mouth a delicious and quite natural scarlet; also that her small well-bred head was exquisitely set on a slender but young and rounded throat, and that it, in its turn, was set quite delightfully between her shoulders. There is no gainsaying the fact that General Carden was a very distinct connoisseur in matters feminine. He wondered who she was, and even after the carriage had passed he thought of her very finished appearance with pleasure. And it was by no means the first time that he had wondered, nor the first that he had experienced the feeling of pleasure at the sight of her.
 
In two or three minutes, so swift are the ways of cars, he was stopping opposite Mudie’s in Kensington High Street. A carriage with a pair of bay horses was waiting beyond the broad pavement outside the shop. General Carden recognized it as belonging to Mrs. Cresswell. Evidently she had left the Park before him.
 
He got out of the car and crossed the pavement to the shop. Mrs. Cresswell was also changing library books. She saw him approaching and gave him a smile—a smile at once brilliant, gay, and charmingly intimate, as was the privilege of an old friend.
 
“So we meet again,” she said in her crisp, pleasantly decided voice, and she held out her hand. “And how are you this fine May morning?”
 
“In most excellent health, thank you,” replied General Carden, taking the hand held out to him. “There is no need for me to ask how you are. You look, as you always do, radiant.” He accompanied the words with a gesture almost suggestive of a bow.
 
“How charming of you!” sighed Mrs. Cresswell, a little laugh in her eyes. “I always feel at least ten years younger when I meet you. And you are on the same errand bent as I. Well, here is one book I can certainly recommend. I am just returning it myself. It is by a new author, and is quite delightful—finished, light, and with a style all its own.” She held up a green-covered book as she spoke, and General Carden read the gold-lettered title, Under the Span of the Rainbow.
 
Now, to be perfectly candid, the title did not appeal to him who read it. In General Carden’s mind it suggested fairy-tales—light, airy, soap-bubbly things, iridescent and pretty enough for the moment, but quite unable to withstand the finger of criticism he would inevitably lay upon them. Yet the book was recommended by a woman, and that woman Mrs. Cresswell.
 
“Any recommendation of yours!” said General Carden gallantly. And he put the book aside while he looked for a second one.
 
A young shopman made various deferential suggestions, and presently Mrs. Cresswell and General Carden were out again in the sunshine, General Carden bearing four library books.
 
“I shall expect to hear what you think of my recommendation,” said Mrs. Cresswell, as he handed her to her carriage and placed two of the books on the seat beside her. Her voice held perhaps the faintest intonation of significance. “Come and see me next Tuesday; I am at home, you know.”
 
“With all the pleasure in the world,” replied General Carden.
 
And then she gave him another of her gracious smiles as the bays moved off down the sunny street.