Now, as Hubert stood at the corner of Somerville Street, looking along the fronts of the houses to try to see which one might have belonged to him and Rose, he was seeing the three of them as they had stood there that evening, but the word in his mind was agony. Agony agony agony was in his mind while he watched the three figures that stood a few houses and over thirty years away from him, and he watched until the vision dazzled and his eyes filled with tears. He turned quickly away from Somerville Street and continued along in the direction of the Shelbourne Hotel. Terrible the things you remember, he thought; it’s a long time since I have walked around here. It does no good to remember those times, he thought, but at the same time he was thinking that it did no harm to remember them. They had been blessed that evening, Rose and himself, and Frank, too. They stood in the state of grace. And then Frank had collected himself and his ornaments, and the three of them had marched into the house together and up the stairs with all flags flying.

And today Rose was the same age as her mother had been on that evening. Hubert glanced across at the park, and quickly glanced again, with curiosity. How many years since he had been in there? Ten, or more? He couldn’t remember. He might go across and go inside for a minute, find out if there were any changes. He was enjoying his walk. The exercise was doing him good, but he wished he had a newspaper to carry in one of his hands. Hands always seemed to get in the way when they were empty. His hands were in his pockets. He ought to have a stick, if he was going to start walking as much as this. A stick was natural, if you were walking. A stick or a newspaper. Anything more was a nuisance.