She told him that she was rather tired, and would like to lie down and rest for a little time before supper; and with the glow of the hill air still on his cheeks and his limbs full of a delicious lassitude he strolled down the lane and into the ill-lighted street of the town. He passed through the little passage at the side of the shop and through the dark bottle-room where he had to pick his way among drug hampers and empty acid-carboys. Through the upper part of the glass door he could see his father sitting on a high stool at the desk, his spectacles half-way down his nose, dreaming among the bad debts in his ledger. Edwin stood there for several minutes, for the picture fascinated him. Mr. Ingleby had now reached the indeterminate period of middle age: his hair was gray, rather thin about the crown, and wanted cutting. In the shop he always wore a black alpaca jacket, and this, by reason of its thinness, made his chest look mean and skimpy. In this state of comparative repose he was not impressive. From time to time he raised his hand to scratch his shoulder. A customer came in to buy a cake of soap and Mr. Ingleby climbed down from his stool to attend to her. He opened a glass case, and, groping for this particular soap, upset at least half a dozen others. Edwin noticed his hands, which were clumsy and heavily veined on the back, and felt sorry for him when he stooped to pick up the cakes of soap that he had upset. It all seemed so inelastic, so different from the eager youth of his mother. Examining his father from a physical standpoint he recalled the day on which Widdup had begun his sexual education and had laughed at his innocent ideals. Now Edwin laughed at himself; and the laugh made Mr. Ingleby look up as if a flying beetle had banged against his ear. “Hallo, boy,” he said. “You were late for tea, you two!” “Oh, we had a lovely walk—right on to Uffdown.” “I hope you didn’t tire your mother. You must be careful, Eddie. Do you want me to give you something to do? You shall weigh these powders then: Phenacetin, five grains in each. Only try to be quiet; I have to get on with these Lady-day bills.” Mr. Ingleby yawned and Edwin started to weigh powders. “Father, what is Dragon’s Blood?” “It isn’t the blood of dragons, Edwin. . . .” Mr. Ingleby smiled under his glasses. “Oh, father, don’t rot.” “Dragon’s Blood is a resin. It’s prepared from _Dracæna Draco_, and it’s used for mahogany varnishes.” “O-oh.” “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Edwin.” Silence for five minutes. “Father . . . Keats was a chemist.” “Keats?” Mr. Ingleby pronounced the word in the same tone as he would have used if he had been saying “Keatings, madam?” “The poet.” “Oh—Keats. Yes, of course he was. He was consumptive, too. Died in Italy.”