ow."

But even as he spoke he felt as though he were giving some pledge that
was to involve him in far more than he could see before him. Then, with
a happy sense that the sentimental part of the conversation was over,
he began to talk about all kinds of things. He let himself go and even,
after a while, began to feel the whole thing really jolly and pleasant.
His father wanted waking up. He had been here so long, with all these
awful frumps, brooding over one idea, never getting away from this
Religion.

Martin began to imagine himself very cleverly leading his father into a
normal natural life, taking him to see things, making him laugh; it
would do his health a world of good.

Then, quite suddenly, the old man said:

"And what do you remember, Martin, of the old days here, the days when
you were quite small, when we lived in Mason Street?"

What did Martin remember? He remembered a good deal. He was surprised
when he began to think ... "Did he remember ..." his father suggested a
scene, a day--yes, he remembered that. His father continued, as though
it had been for his own pleasure.

The scenes, the hours returned with a vividness and actuality that
thronged the room.

He could see Mason Street with its grocer's shop at the corner, its
Baths and Public Library, the sudden little black dips into the areas
as the houses followed one another, the lamp-post opposite their window
that had always excited him because it leaned inwards a little as
though it would presently tumble. He remembered the fat short cook with
the pink cotton dress who wheezed and blew so when she had to climb the
stairs. He remembered the rooms that would seem bare enough to him now,
he supposed, but were then filled with exciting possibilities--a little
round brown table, his mother's work-box with mother-of-pearl shells
upon the cover, a stuffed bird with bright blue feathers under a glass
case, a screen with coloured pictures of battles and horses and
elephants casted upon it. He remembered the exact sound that the
tinkling bell made when it summoned them to meals, he remembered the
especial smell of beef and carpet that was the dining-room, he
remembered a little door of coloured glass on the first landing, a
cupboard that had in it sugar and apples, a room full of old books
piled high all about the floor upon the dry and dusty boards ... a
thousand other things came crowding around him.

Then, as his father's voice continued, out from