Now that I have the clue to it, the thing seems written visibly in his face.  I have a photograph in which that look of detachment has been caught and intensified.  It reminds me of what a woman once said of him—­a woman who had loved him greatly.  “Suddenly,” she said, “the interest goes out of him.  He forgets you.  He doesn’t care a rap for you--under his very nose . . . . .”

Yet the interest was not always out of him, and when he was holding his attention to a thing Wallace could contrive to be an extremely successful man.  His career, indeed, is set with successes.  He left me behind him long ago; he soared up over my head, and cut a figure in the world that I couldn’t cut—­anyhow.  He was still a year short of forty, and they say now that he would have been in office and very probably in the new Cabinet if he had lived.  At school he always beat me without effort—­as it were by nature.  We were at school together at Saint Athelstan’s College in West Kensington for almost all our school time.  He came into the school as my co-equal, but he left far above me, in a blaze of scholarships and brilliant performance.  Yet I think I made a fair average running.  And it was at school I heard first of the Door in the Wall—­that I was to hear of a second time only a month before his death.

To him at least the Door in the Wall was a real door leading through a real wall to immortal realities.  Of that I am now quite assured.

And it came into his life early, when he was a little fellow between five and six.  I remember how, as he sat making his confession to me with a slow gravity, he reasoned and reckoned the date of it.  “There was,” he said, “a crimson Virginia creeper in it—­all one bright uniform crimson in a clear amber sunshine against a white wall.  That came into the impression somehow, though I don’t clearly remember how, and there were horse-chestnut leaves upon the clean pavement outside the green door.  They were blotched yellow and green, you know, not brown nor dirty, so that they must have been new fallen.  I take it that means October.  I look out for horse-chestnut leaves every year, and I ought to know.

“If I’m right in that, I was about five years and four months old.”

He was, he said, rather a precocious little boy—­he learned to talk at an abnormally early age, and he was so sane and “old-fashioned,” as people say, that he was permitted an amount of initiative that most children scarcely attain by seven or eight.  His mother died when he was born, and he was under the less vigilant and authoritative care of a nursery governess.  His father was a stern, preoccupied lawyer, who gave him little attention, and expected great things of him.  For all his brightness he found life a little grey and dull I think.  And one day he wandered.

He could not recall the particular neglect that enabled him to get away, nor the course he took among the West Kensington roads.  All that had faded among the incurable blurs of memory.  But the white wall and the green door stood out quite distinctly.