"Why," he wondered after a pause, "do I think of my father that way and no other way? I do not know, but that is the way he will live in me. That is the way he will not die."
. . . . .
The day was declining. The woman seemed to stand out in greater relief against the other two and become more and more beautiful.
I saw the man's silhouette on the faded curtains, his back bent, his head shaking as in a palsy and his neck strained and emaciated.
With a rather awkward movement he drew a case of cigarettes from his pocket and lit a cigarette.
As the eager little light rose and spread like a glittering mask, I saw his ravaged features. But when he started to smoke in the twilight, all you could see was the glowing cigarette, shaken by an arm as unsubstantial as the smoke that came from it.
It was not tobacco that he was smoking. The odour of a drug sickened me.
He held out his hand feebly toward the closed window, modest with its half-lifted curtains.
"Look—Benares and Allahabad. A sumptuous ceremony—tiaras—insignia, and women's ornaments. In the foreground, the high priest, with his elaborate head-dress in tiers—a vague pagoda, architecture, epoch, race. How different we are from those creatures. Are /they/ right or are /we/ right?"
Now he extended the circle of the past, with a mighty effort.