tea-tray and Britannia metal teapot, but
the sofa with broken springs was still there, covered as it had ever
been with the greater part of the family wardrobe.

Christopher sat in the armchair, and Mrs. Sartin, having plumped the
baby into its chair, sat down by the door. The small Jimmy pulled at
her apron. Jessie leant against the wall and giggled. No one said
anything. Christopher began to wish he had not come.

"I never could remember the name of this place," he began at last,
desperately. "I just came on it by accident to-day, and remembered
everything all at once."

"Shilla Buildings, that's what it's called," said Mrs. Sartin nodding
her head. "Block 7, C. Door."

Silence again. A strict sense of etiquette prevented either of the
feminine side of the company from uttering the question burning on
their tongues.

"I did see Sam once, a long time ago," Christopher struggled on, "but
I could not catch him." He got red and embarrassed again.

"'Ows your Ma?" asked Mrs. Sartin at last.

"She's dead," explained Christopher very gravely, "five years ago
now--more."

"Lor'. To think of it. I never thought she was one to live long. And
she went back to her friends after all, I suppose."

It was not a question: it was only a statement to be confirmed or
contradicted or ignored as the hearer liked.

"She died in the Union at Whitmansworth," said Christopher bluntly. "I
lived there afterwards and then someone adopted me. Mr. Aymer Aston,
son of Mr. Aston. Perhaps you know the name."

Mrs. Sartin appeared to consult an imaginary visiting list.

"No, I can't say as I do. Do you, Jessie?"

Jessie shook her head. She had ceased to look at their visitor;
instead, she looked at his boots, and her cheeks grew red.

"I thought I would like to see if you were still here."

"Very good of you, I'm sure." It was not meant ironically, it was
solely addressed to the blue suit and brown boots, but it nearly
reduced the wearer of these awe-inspiring clothes to tears.

For the moment, in the clutch of the past, with associations laying
gripping hands on him and with his curious faculty of responding to
the outward call, Aston House and the Astons became suddenly a faint
blurred impression to Christopher, less real and tangible than these
worn, sordid surroundings. Had anyone just then demanded his name he
would undoubtedly have responded "Hibbault." He felt confused and
wretched, alive to the fact that little Jim Hibbault