So Well Remembered Read Free Page A

One of George’s numerous prides was in having the finest personal
library in Browdley, and probably he had; it was a genuine collection,
anyhow, not an accumulation of sets for the sake of their binding, such as
could be seen in the mansions of rich local manufacturers. Moreover, George
really READ his books—thoroughly and studiously, often with pencil in
hand for note-taking. Like many men who have suffered deficiencies in early
education, he had more than made up for them since—except that he had
failed to acquire the really unique thing a good early education can bequeath
—the ability to grow up and forget about it. George could never forget
—neither on nor off the Education Committee of which he made the best
and most energetic chairman Browdley had ever had.
    What he chiefly hoped was that during the interval before Winslow must
catch his train back to London, they might have a serious intellectual talk
—or perhaps the latter would talk, Gamaliel-wise, while George sat
metaphorically at his feet.
    Unfortunately the great man failed to pick up the desired cue from a first
sight of the books; indeed, he seemed hardly to notice them, even when George
with an expansive wave of the hand bade him make himself at home; though
there was consolation in reflecting that Winslow’s own library was probably
so huge that this one must appear commonplace.
    “Make yourself thoroughly at home, sir,” George repeated, with extra
heartiness on account of his disappointment.
    “Thank you,” answered the other, striding across the room. He stood for a
few seconds, staring through the back window, then murmured meditatively:
“H’m—very nice. Quite a show. Wonderful what one can do even in the
middle of a town.”
    George then realized that Winslow must be referring to the small oblong
garden between the house and the wall of the neighbouring bus-garage. So he
replied quickly: “Aye, but it’s gone a bit to pieces lately. Not much in my
line, gardening.”
    “Must compliment you on your roses, anyhow.”
    “My wife, not me—she’s the one for all that if she was here.”
    “She’s away?”
    “Aye—on the Continent. Likes to travel too—all over the place.
But books are more in my line.”
    “It’s certainly been a good season for them.”
    George wasn’t sure what this referred to until Winslow added, still
staring out of the window: “My wife’s another enthusiast—she’s won
prizes at our local show.”
    George still did not think this a promising beginning to an intellectual
conversation, but as Annie was just then bringing in the tea he said no more
about books. Winslow, however, could not tear himself away from the spectacle
of the roses—which were, indeed, especially beautiful that year. “Too
bad,” he murmured, “for anyone who loves a garden to miss England just now…
So you’re not keen on foreign holidays, is that it, Boswell?”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t say no if I had the chance, but I don’t suppose I’d ever
be as keen as Livia is. Anyhow, I’ve got too much to do in Browdley to leave
the place for months on end.”
    “MONTHS? Quite a holiday.”
    “Aye, but it’s not all holiday for her. She has a job with one of those
travel tours—‘Ten Days in Lovely Lucerne’—that kind of thing.
Pays her expenses and a bit over.”
    “Convenient.”
    “For anyone who likes seeing the same sights with different folks over and
over again. I wouldn’t.”
    “Sort of guide, is she?”
    “I reckon so. She runs the show for ‘em, I’ll bet. She’s got a real knack
for managing folks when she feels like it.”
    “I wouldn’t say you were entirely without it yourself.”
    “Ah, but with her it’s an art.” George was too genuinely modest to realize
that his own sterling na veté was just as good a knack, art, or whatever else
it was. “Maybe you won’t believe me, but when I was a young fellow I was so
scared of meeting folks I could hardly