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paced the room. His mind became more capable of consecutive thought.
The room had been his study for four-and-twenty years. It had been
furnished at his marriage, and all the essential equipment dated from
then, the large complex writing-desk, the rotating chair, the easy chair
at the fire, the rotating bookcase, the fixture of indexed pigeon-holes
that filled the further recess. The vivid Turkey carpet, the later
Victorian rugs and curtains had mellowed now to a rich dignity of
effect, and copper and brass shone warm about the open fire. Electric
lights had replaced the lamp of former days; that was the chief
alteration in the original equipment. But among these things his
connection with the Food had left abundant traces. Along one wall, above
the dado, ran a crowded array of black-framed photographs and
photogravures, showing his son and Cossar's sons and others of the
Boom-children at various ages and amidst various surroundings. Even
young Caddles' vacant visage had its place in that collection. In the
corner stood a sheaf of the tassels of gigantic meadow grass from
Cheasing Eyebright, and on the desk there lay three empty poppy heads as
big as hats. The curtain rods were grass stems. And the tremendous skull
of the great hog of Oakham hung, a portentous ivory overmantel, with a
Chinese jar in either eye socket, snout down above the fire....
It was to the photographs that Redwood went, and in particular to the
photographs of his son.
They brought back countless memories of things that had passed out of
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