‘And with my grandfather Charvill also so very angry, it was not perhaps so very comfortable for my father. ‘See that writing table? Go and look in the drawer there. All the same, I don’t admit it. The thought of beauty became an obsession. “But how is it all going to end?” said Mr. “If any one should know——you should! He was your friend. What does it matter? It is here, and it is here to stay. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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