A TAXICAB took him in dreary rain through the squalor of Tyneside, now following the dismal tram lines, now cutting through mean streets, until they reached a row of low, bow-windows agglutinated little villas with handkerchief of garden separating them from the road. At No. 17 he dismissed the cab and swung wide the flimsy gate. Before he could enter, the house door opened and a woman appeared, worn and elderly, in a cheap, soiled wrapper. “I suppose that’s you, John. I shouldn’t have recognized you.” She spoke with a harsh, northern accent, and her face betrayed little emotion. “You’re Ellen,” said he. “Aye. I’m Ellen. You didn’t think I was Jane?” She led the way into a narrow passage and then into the diminutive parlour. “Of course not,” said he. “Jane died three years ago. But you I haven’t seen since I was a child.” She looked him up and down: “Quite the gentleman.” “I hope so. How’s mother?” She gave the news dully. The sick woman had passed through the night safely and was now asleep. “She had made up her mind to see you before she died—she always was strong willed—and that has kept her alive. Until I read your telegram I didn’t think you would come.” He flashed one of his quick glances. “Why not? This isn’t the first time I’ve come to see her since my return. If I’ve made my way in the world, that’s no reason for you to call me undutiful.” “I don’t want to quarrel, John,” she said wearily. “Yes. I know about your visits and the bit of money you send her. And she’s grateful, poor soul.” She paused. Then: “You’ll be wanting breakfast.” “Also a wash.” “Are you too grand for the sink, or must you have hot water in your room?” “The sink will do. It will be less trouble for you.”