despatch, in the third-floor back of a filthy lodging-house off Tottenham
Court Road.

This was the end as far as information went, whether authentic or
apocryphal. But Dominic, his horizon still bounded by the world of
school, greedy of distinction both in learning and in games, away all day
and eagerly, if somewhat sleepily, busy over the preparation of lessons
at night, was very far from realising that. Poor voluble kind-eyed Pascal
he mourned with all his heart; yet the months of his father's absence
accumulated into years almost unnoticed. The same thing had so often
happened before; and then, at an unlooked-for moment, the wanderer had
returned. Moreover, the old habit of obedience was still strong in him.
It was understood that concerning his father's occupations and movements
no comment might be made, no questions might be asked.

Meanwhile, the small house in Holland Street was ever more still, more
unfrequented. As he grew older Dominic became increasingly sensible of
this--sensible of a sort of hush falling on him as he crossed the
threshold, so that instinctively he left much of his wholesome young
animality outside, while his voice took on softer tones in speech, and
his quick light footsteps became more scrupulously noiseless as he ran up
the little crooked stairs.

"When your father comes home we must decide what profession you shall
follow, my Dominic," it had been his mother's habit to declare. But, even
before the time for such decision arrived the boy had begun to understand
he must see to all that unaided. For his mother was ill, how deeply and
in what manner he could not tell. He shrank, indeed, from all clear
thought, let alone speech, on the subject, as from something indelicate,
in a way irreverent. Her beauty remained to her, notwithstanding a