Among the heads which I was examining at leisure and with entire sympathy was one which I thought I knew. It belonged to grandfather’s left-hand neighbour, the very one whom he had qualified as a wine-sack. The face was sprinkled with red spots, which, however, were hardly to be distinguished from his blood-shot skin. Hair, beard and skin were all of the same red colour which overspread his entire head, even threatening the nose, which, the central point of the spectacle, shone resplendent. In spite of myself I thought of the picture in my Bible where the prophet Elijah is being carried by a chariot of fire into the glory of the setting sun; but I repelled the comparison as unseemly. Where could I have seen that incandescent head? By degrees my memories cleared themselves up. It had happened at our house: a man had come out from the consulting room, not proud and flaming like him of the café, but abashed, pitiful, discomfited. Yet it must have been the same: that hairy skin, those red blotches. I could not be mistaken. Father was escorting him out, and trying to encourage him, saying, as he tapped him on the shoulder: “Keep your money, friend. You are in a sense a part of the house. Your parents and mine said thou to one another. But you must quit drinking at any cost. Promise me never again to set your foot in a café.” “I swear to you I won’t, doctor.” “Don’t swear, but hold out.” “Yes, yes. I swear to you. Never in my life shall I be seen in a wineshop.” And yet here he was, drinking and laughing, and as healthy as possible. Father was certainly too severe. Forgetting that he had cured me, I inwardly blamed him for frightening people, finding in him a certain hardness of heart. Why should he wish to deprive this good fellow of his pleasure?