He was not fool enough to dismiss it simply because it did not resemble his own.

Moreover it had been once his, and this was increasingly borne in upon him.

But it all seemed to him now incredibly old, childish and even fantastic, as though here, in the middle of London, he had suddenly stepped into a little wood with a witch, a cottage and a boiling cauldron.

Such things could not frighten, of course--he was no longer a child--and yet because he had once been frightened some impression of alarm and dismay hovered over him.
During all his normal years abroad he had forgotten the power of superstition, of dreams and omens; he knew now, as he faced his father, that the power was real enough.
They talked for a little while of ordinary things; the candle flame jumped and fell, the shavings rustled strangely in the fireplace, the "Transfiguration" swung a little on its cord, the colour still lingering at its heart as the rest of the room moved restlessly under the ebb and flow of black shadows.

Then the candle suddenly blew out.
"A lamp will be better," said Mr.Warlock.
He left the room and Martin sat there, in the darkness, haunted by he knew not what anticipations.