Two pictures come into my memory.  I have climbed to the top of a tree by the edge of the playing field, and am looking at my school-fellows and am as proud of myself as a March cock when it crows to its first sunrise.  I am saying to myself, “if when I grow up I am as clever among grown-up men as I am among these boys, I shall be a famous man.”  I remind myself how they think all the same things and cover the school walls at election times with the opinions their fathers find in the newspapers.  I remind myself that I am an artist’s son and must take some work as the whole end of life and not think as the others do of becoming well off and living pleasantly.  The other picture is of a hotel sitting-room in the Strand, where a man is hunched up over the fire.  He is a cousin who has speculated with another cousin’s money and has fled from Ireland in danger of arrest.  My father has brought us to spend the evening with him, to distract him from the remorse my father knows that he must be suffering.