ABSTRACT
Arthur Compton Rickett Though familiar with his photograph, I was not prepared for the Hardy who slid noiselessly into the drawing room after I had sent in my card. I had expected a bigger man, a man of the scholar type, one whose expression reflected the austere melancholy of his portrait. And here was a little man who looked like a country solicitor, with keen, twinkling eyes and a quietly cordial manner. For a moment a look of fear flashed out. ‘You don’t want to talk about my books?’ Of course I did, but mendaciously I assured him that I didn’t. For I quickly divined that the interview would be short and unsatisfactory if I allowed my curiosity full play. I remarked (not over-tactfully, I fear) that I had had some difficulty in finding his place, as a man whom I had spoken to outside Dorchester station had misdirected me.
