“I think that if one desires a thing enough here, Charmides,” I said, “one is in a fair way to obtain it.  Never mind! a door will be opened.  But one has got to care, I suppose; it is not enough to look upon it as a pretty effect, which one would just like to put in its place with other effects—­’Open, sesame’—­do you remember?  There is a charm at which all doors fly open, even here!”

“I will talk to you more about this,” said Charmides, “when I have had time to arrange my thoughts a little.  Who would have supposed that an old recollection like that would have disturbed me so much?  It would make a good subject for a picture or a song.”

XIV

It was on one of these days that Amroth came suddenly upon me, with a very mirthful look on his face, his eyes sparkling like a man struggling with hidden laughter.  “Come with me,” he said; “you have been so dutiful lately that I am alarmed for your health.”  Then we went out of the garden where I was sitting, and we were suddenly in a street.  I saw in a moment that it was a real street, in the suburb of an English town; there were electric trams running, and rows of small trees, and an open space planted with shrubs, with asphalt paths and ugly seats.  On the other side of the road was a row of big villas, tasteless, dreary, comfortable houses, with meaningless turrets and balconies.  I could not help feeling that it was very dismal that men and women should live in such places, think them neat and well-appointed, and even grow to love them.  We went into one of these houses; it was early in the morning, and a little drizzle was falling, which made the whole place seem very cheerless.  In a room with a bow-window looking on the road there were three persons.  An old man was reading a paper in an arm-chair by the fire, with his back to the light.  He looked a nice old man, with his clear skin and white hair; opposite him was an old lady in another chair, reading a letter.  With his back to the fire stood a man of about thirty-five, sturdy-looking, but pale, and with an appearance of being somewhat overworked.  He had a good face, but seemed a little uninteresting, as if he did not feed his mind.  The table had been spread for breakfast, and the meal was finished and partly cleared away.  The room was ugly and the furniture was a little shabby; there was a glazed bookcase, full of dull-looking books, a sideboard, a table with writing materials in the window, and some engravings of royal groups and celebrated men.

The younger man, after a moment, said, “Well, I must be off.”  He nodded to his father, and bent down to kiss his mother, saying, “Take care of yourself—­I shall be back in good time for tea.”  I had a sense that he was using these phrases in a mechanical way, and that they were customary with him.  Then he went out, planting his feet solidly on the carpet, and presently the front door shut.  I could not understand why we