Take your father's hand." They started upon their pilgrimage.

Burton, at any rate, spent a miserable two hours.

He hated the stiff, brand-new public garden in which they walked, with its stunted trees, its burnt grass, its artificial and weary flower-beds.

He hated the people who stood about as they did, listening to the band,--the giggling girls, the callow, cigarette-smoking youths, the dressed up, unnatural replicas of his own wife and himself, with whom he was occasionally forced to hold futile conversation.

He hated the sly punch in the ribs from one of his quondam companions, the artful murmur about getting the missis to look another way and the hurried visit to a neighboring public-house, the affected anger and consequent jokes which followed upon their return.
As they walked homeward, the cold ugliness of it all seemed almost to paralyze his newly awakened senses.