He was writing a new sermon for the season of Easter, and his mind was raking up the past as a man unearths some buried thing that the mould has rotted.
The sunlight was pouring in through the window as he bent over his desk nursing thoughts that were vermin in his brain.
"You're going, Sally ?" he said.
"Yes, father." He stood up from his chair and looked at her--looked her up and down as though he wished the sight of her to last in his memory for the rest of his life.
"What time do you get to London ?" "Half-past one." "And you've arranged about where you're going to stay ?" "Yes, I'm going to share rooms with Miss Hallard--" "The girl who's going to be an artist ?" "Yes; she has lodgings near Kew." "Ah, Kew.

Yes, Kew.

I remember walking from Kew to Richmond, along by the gardens, when I was quite a young man.

So you're going there, Sally ?" His eyes still roamed over her.
"Yes, father.

What are you doing?
Are you writing a sermon ?" That little interest in his own affairs awakened him.