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Updated: May 9, 2025
Really and truly I believe he is a genius, but even if he is not, there is nothing to be gained by using force. Ron has a very strong will you have yourself, you know, dear, only of course in your case it is guided by judgment and common sense and you will never drive him into doing a thing against his will. Now just suppose you let him go his own way for a time!
"Let us settle," said the others, "to meet one another at Carraig na Ron, the Rock of the Seals, for we all have knowledge of it."
"Wait a moment until the `Brither' has turned back towards the village. Then we'll sally out of the door and meet him face to face." Ron picked up his grey cap, a coat he disdained, though he also was far from warm, and followed his sister into the bare entrance-hall, with its pungent mingling of odours.
"Then you must consider that Ron has proved his point! It is really a stiff test, for it takes mediocre people far longer than a year to make a footing on the literary ladder. You would then have to continue his allowance, and try to be thankful that you are the father of a poet, instead of a clerk!"
It was easier than writing a letter," laughed Ron easily, stretching out his hand as he spoke to take forcible possession, for the magazine was of more interest to himself than to Margot, and he felt that a new copy was just what was needed to occupy the hours before bedtime. Margot made no demur, but stood watching quietly while Ron tore off the wrapper, and flattened the curled paper.
Then girding on Excalibur and taking in his right hand his great lance Ron, he placed his men in order and led them out against the enemy, who stood for battle on the slope of Badon Hill, ranged in the form of a wedge, as their custom was. And they, resisting all the onslaughts of King Arthur and his host, made that day a stout defence, and at night lay down upon the hill.
The letters and parcel lay unnoticed on the table until the conclusion of the meal, but as Margot picked them up preparatory to carrying them upstairs to her own room, she gave a sudden start of astonishment. "Ron, it's the Loadstar! Some one has sent me a copy of the Loadstar. From the office, I think, for the name is printed on the cover. Who could it be?" Lazy beggar!
At stated intervals during the day, the mechanical toy was rolled into a corner, and the lady in grey stood up on a platform and sang queer little songs, the words of which nobody could understand. "Il etait une bergere et ron et petit pataplon...."
She laughed again, remembering the purpose of the moment, and its close connection with this newly-made acquaintance. Instinctively she turned towards Ron, and the two pairs of brown eyes met, and flashed a message of mischief, affection, and secret understanding a glance which made the watcher sigh with a sudden realisation of his own lost youth, his bald head, and increasing bulk.
She was not in a reading mood, but the suggestion that George Elgood might have sent the magazine made it precious in her sight, and she waited anxiously for its return. "It's mine, Ron. It was sent to me! I want to take it upstairs." "Let me look at the index first, to see who is writing this month! You don't generally care for such stiff reading; I say, there's a fine collection of names!
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