. He had crossed
Westminster Bridge to watch the trams on the other side, and from
there, being in an adventurous mood, he had wandered out into vague
regions lying beyond, regions of vast warehouses, of narrow, dirty
streets and squalid houses, of sudden palaces of commerce towering
over the low tide of mean roofs. Suddenly turning a corner, he had
come on a block of "model dwellings," and an inrush of memories
brought him to a standstill before the giant ugly pile.

There, on the topmost floor of the east corner of Block D, had lived
Martha Sartin, and Marley Sartin, packer at one of the big warehouses
near, also Jessie Sartin and numerous other Sartins, including Sam,
who was about Christopher's age; there in the dull asphalt court Sam
and Christopher had played, and up that steep stairway had climbed in
obedience to husky shouts from over the iron railings of the top
landing.

It was all so vivid, so unaltered, so sharply set in Christopher's
mind that he had to look down at his own immaculate blue suit and
unpatched boots to reassure himself he was not waiting for Martha's
shrill order to "come up out of the dirt." But assured once more of
his own present personality he could not resist exploring further, and
went right up to the foot of the iron staircase and looked up. It was
all just as sordid and dirty and unlovely as ever, though he had not
known before the measure of its undesirableness. Leaning over the
railing of the top landing was an untidy-looking woman in a brown
skirt and half-fastened blouse. She looked over into the yard and
shouted in a voice that made Christopher jump.

"Jim, come up out of the dirt, you little varmint!"

And Christopher, erstwhile Jim, leant against the wall and felt his
head was whirling round. Then he inspected himself again, but at that
moment a shock-headed dirty mite of four years brushed past him and
began to clamber up the stairs, pushing his way through the horde of
small babies on each landing and squealing shrilly, "I'm coming,
Mammie."

Christopher went too. He could not possibly have resisted the impulse,
for assuredly it was Martha's voice that called--called him back willy
nilly to the past that after all was not so far past except in a boy's
measure of time.

A dark-eyed, decent-looking woman passed him on the stair and looked
at him curiously; further on a man, smoking a pipe, took the trouble
to follow him to the next floor in a loafing fashion. The small