ily and
pleasantly. Suddenly now another world rose up before him. Yes, another
world. He was not fool enough to dismiss it simply because it did not
resemble his own. Moreover it had been once his, and this was
increasingly borne in upon him. But it all seemed to him now incredibly
old, childish and even fantastic, as though here, in the middle of
London, he had suddenly stepped into a little wood with a witch, a
cottage and a boiling cauldron. Such things could not frighten, of
course--he was no longer a child--and yet because he had once been
frightened some impression of alarm and dismay hovered over him.

During all his normal years abroad he had forgotten the power of
superstition, of dreams and omens; he knew now, as he faced his father,
that the power was real enough.

They talked for a little while of ordinary things; the candle flame
jumped and fell, the shavings rustled strangely in the fireplace, the
"Transfiguration" swung a little on its cord, the colour still
lingering at its heart as the rest of the room moved restlessly under
the ebb and flow of black shadows. Then the candle suddenly blew out.

"A lamp will be better," said Mr. Warlock.

He left the room and Martin sat there, in the darkness, haunted by he
knew not what anticipations. The light was brought, they drew closer
together, sitting in the little glossy pool, the room pitch dark around
them.

"Well, Martin," at last Mr. Warlock said, "I want to hear so many
things. Our first time together alone."

"There isn't very much," Martin tried to speak naturally and
carelessly. "I wrote about most things in my letters. Pretty rotten
letters I'm afraid." He laughed.

"And now--what do you intend to do now?"

"Oh, I don't know--Look around for a bit."

There was another long pause. Then Mr. Warlock began again. "When I ask
about your life, my boy, I don't mean where you've lived, how you've
earned your living--I do know all that--you've been very good about
writing. But your real life, what you've been thinking about things,
how you feel about everything ..."

"Well, father--I don't know. One hadn't much time for thinking, you
know. No one did much thinking in Rio. When I was in the Bermudas there
was a fellow ..."

"Yes, but tell me about yourself."

Then, with a desperate effort, he broke out:

"Father, you'll be badly disappointed in me. I've been feeling it
coming all the time. I can't help it. I'm just like any one else. I
want to