There was something
of the dragoon in his upright and independent bearing. He had, in
fact, taken part in more than one fiercely fought battle, and was a
member of several military clubs; but it was plain to be seen that his
ancestors had used war clubs, and had transmitted to him the physique
of a Hercules. One did not need to glance at the Christmas number of
the _Strand_, which he held in his hand, nor read the name printed
there in large letters, to know that he was face to face with Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle.
His guest, an older man, yet still in the prime of life, whose beard
was tinged with grey, was of less warlike bearing than the celebrated
novelist, belonging, as he evidently did, to the civil and not the
military section of life. He had about him the air of a prosperous man
of affairs, shrewd, good-natured, conciliatory, and these two
strongly contrasting personages are types of the men to whom England
owes her greatness. The reader of the Christmas number will very
probably feel disappointed when he finds, as he supposes, merely two
old friends sitting amicably in a country house after dinner. There
seems, to his jaded taste, no element of tragedy in such a situation.
These two men appear comfortable enough, and respectable enough.
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