When he came to himself he thought with a precision and clarity that amounted almost to vision of his first arrival at Oxford, saw himself eagerly, shyly, stepping down from the train and hurrying through the crowd of other young men, eager and shy, and meeting school acquaintances. He remembered with singular acuteness the pang of shame he had felt on encountering Blazering who was going to Magdalen while he himself was a scholar of Lincoln. He pursued the stripling who had been himself out of the station and up past the gaol, feeling amazingly, blissfully youthful when he put up his hand and found a stiff beard upon his chin. Gone was the vision of Oxford, gone the sensation of youth, and he realized that he was in bed in a stranger's room, which, without his glasses, he could not see distinctly. There was a woman by his bedside, a stout woman, with a strong light behind her, so that he could not distinguish her features. It was a very little room, low in the ceiling. The smell of it was good. It had one small window, which was open, and through it there came up the hubbub of voices and the grinding beat and blare of a mechanical organ that repeated one tune so quickly that it seemed always to be afraid it would not have time to reach the end before it began again. The woman was knitting. He tried to remember who she might be, but failing, and feeling mortified at his failure, he consoled himself with the reflection that he was ill--ill-in-bed, one of the marked degrees of sickness among schoolboys. How ill? He had never been ill in his life. "Can I have my spectacles?" he said. "Oh!" The knitting in the woman's hands went clattering to the floor. "Lor'! Mr. Mole, you did give me a start. I shall have the palpitations, same as my mother. My mother had the palpitations for forty years and then she died of something else." "If I had my spectacles I could see who it is speaking." "It's Mrs. Copas. Don't you know me, Mr. Mole?" "I--er. I . . . . This is your house?" "It's lodgings, Mr. Mole. You've been sick, Mr. Mole, you have. Prostrated on your back for nearly a week, Mr. Mole. You did give us all a turn, falling off the caravan like that into the King's high road. You'd never believe the pool of blood you left in the road, Mr. Mole. But it soon dried up. . . ." He began to have a glimmering, dimly to remember, a road, a caravan, a horse's tail, dust, a droning voice behind him, but still the name of Copas meant nothing to him. "Copas! Copas!" he said to himself, but aloud. Mrs. Copas produced the spectacles and placed them on his nose. Then she leaned over him in his bed and in the loud indulgent voice with which the unafflicted humor the deaf, she said: "Yes! Mrs. Copas. Matilda's aunt. _You know."_ That brought the whole adventure flooding back.