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.
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