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John Raven sat in the library of his shabby, yet dignified Boston house,waiting for Richard Powell, his nephew, whom he had summoned for anintimate talk. He was sitting by the fire making a pretense of readingthe evening paper, but really he was prefiguring the coming interview,dreading it a good deal, and chiefly for the reason that there was anargument to be presented, and for this he was insufficiently prepared,and must be, however long it might be delayed. When he telephoned Dickto come he was at last armed with a bold conviction of being able toproffer a certain case to him (his own case, in fact); but, as theselast moments went on, he weakened sensibly in any hope he might have hadthat Dick would be able to meet him from any illuminating viewpoint ofhis own. This was mid-winter, two years after the end of the War, whereDick and his uncle had worked in the Ambulance Corps to the limit oftheir capacities—Dick, no soldier, because of what seemed to him adiabolic eccentricity of imperfect sight, and Raven, blocked by what hefelt to be the negligible disability of age. John Raven had, with thebegin