'A little present--of course, I shall be hearing of you--every good wish----' On the eve of his marriage day he stood in the dismantled rooms, at once joyful and heavy at heart.

His books were hidden in a score of packing-cases, labelled, ready to be sent away.

In spite of open windows, the air was still charged with dust; since the packing began, everyone concerned in it had choked and coughed incessantly; on the bare floor, footsteps were impressed in a thick flocky deposit.

These rooms could have vied with any in London for supremacy of filthiness.
Yet here he had known hours of still contentment; here he had sat with friends congenial, and heard the walls echo their hearty laughter; here he had felt at home--here his youth had died.
Where all else was doubtful, speculative, contingent, that one thing he certainly knew; he was no longer a young man.

The years had passed like a shadow, unnoted, uncounted, and had brought him to this point of pause, of change momentous, when he must needs look before and after.
In all likelihood much more than half his life was gone.