"The room I was born in," he explained. "Window with the broken
pane on the second floor. It has never been mended."
I stole a glance at him. His face betrayed no suggestion of
sentiment, but rather of amusement. He offered me a cigar, which I
was glad of, for the stench from the offal-laden water behind us was
distracting, and for a while we both smoked in silence: he with his
eyes half-closed; it was a trick of his when working out a business
problem.
"Curious, my making such a choice," he remarked. "A butcher's
assistant for my father and a consumptive buttonhole-maker for my
mother. I suppose I knew what I was about. Quite the right thing
for me to have done, as it turned out."
I stared at him, wondering whether he was speaking seriously or in
grim jest. He was given at times to making odd remarks. There was
a vein of the fantastic in him that was continually cropping out and
astonishing me.
"It was a bit risky," I suggested. "Better choose something a
little safer next time."
He looked round at me sharply, and, not quite sure of his mood, I
kept a grave face.
"Perhaps you are right," he agreed, with a laugh. "We must have a
talk about it one day."
After that visit to the Goortgasse he was less reserved with me, and
would often talk to me on subjects that I should never have guessed
would have interested him.
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