it were, by this blur, which is the hall-mark of infinity.

In mighty distances, whether from earth to heaven, whether from 5245
Gerrard to 137 Glasgow, there is always that awful, that disintegrating
blur.

A third period succeeded. I may call it the affectionately practical
period. Instantly the blur vanishes. We were at our proper distance
from the essence of things, and though infinity is something one yearns
for passionately, one's normal condition has its meed of comfort. I
remember once hearing a man in a Government office say that the
pleasantest moment of his annual holiday was when his train rolled back
into Paddington Station. And he was a man, too, of a naturally lazy
disposition.

It was about the middle of this third period, during a
mushroom-trapping ramble, that the idea occurred to us, first to me,
then--after reflection--to James, that mother ought to be informed how
matters stood between us.

We went into the house, hand-in-hand, and interviewed her.

She was in the bow-window, reading a translation of _The
Deipnosophists_ of Athenaeus.

"Good morning," she said, looking at her watch. "It is a little past
our usual breakfast time, Margie, I think?"

"We have been looking for mushrooms, mother."