9
T
he
last term drew to an end and life began racing for Tregan. His great-uncle sent him one of the infrequent letters. The angular script said that his father had married again and wished him to go to America. If he did not wish to go, the letter said, he need not. His uncle and aunt would always be glad to bring him up as their own son.
The letter flooded Tregan with half-forgotten emotions and atrophied memories. In the years of schooling the thought of his parents had been pushed further and further into the background. The cloud of having a mother who was suddenly dead and a father “abroad” had faded completely. Tregan could not remember his father at all. There was only that mixed smell of Russian leather and port wine and tweed impregnated with woodsmoke. That was all.
But it
