“Back where I left them so many years ago,” he went on. “I’ve a very peculiar feeling now—the thing I set out to analyze tonight. Did you ever look back at some moment in your past and have it suddenly grow so vivid that all the intervening years seemed brief, dreamlike, impersonal—the motions of a May afternoon surrendered to routine?” “No,” I said. “One day, when you do, remember—the cognac,” he said, and he took another sip and passed me the bottle. I had some more and returned it to him.
