Now he took his father's hand
in his own strong grasp and said gruffly:
"That's all right, father . . . I'm not going while you want
me . . . You and I . . . always . . . it's just the same now."
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 .
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