Ernie listened in awed silence.
"That's Beethoven," he said. "I'd know it anywhere.... In old days we used to have to go out for that, me and dad did."
The music ceased.
"Now," said his mother, and opened the kitchen-door.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE CHANGED MAN
Ernie went to the study-door and knocked.
"Come in," said a voice that surprised him by its firmness.
He entered.
His father stood before the fireplace almost as he had left him, save that he had discarded his dressing-gown for a loose long-tailed morning-coat of the kind worn by country gentlemen in the eighties. Physically he had changed very little, spiritually it was clear at the first glance that he was another man. The dignity which had distinguished him at the moment of parting had become his permanent possession. Some shining wind of the spirit blowing through his stagnant streets had purged him thoroughly. His colour was fresh as a child's, his eyes steady and hopeful, and there was a note of quiet exaltation about him, of expectation.