thought.

I had an errand at my aunt's house; had a message to deliver,
sympathetic enquiries to make--and I wanted to see her, to gain some
sort of information from her; to spy out the land; to ask her for terms.
There was a change in the appearance of the house, an adventitious
brightness that indicated the rise in the fortunes of the family. For me
the house was empty and the great door closed hollowly behind me. My
sister was not at home. It seemed abominable to me that she should be
out; that she could be talking to anyone, or could exist without me. I
went sullenly across the road to the palings of the square. As I turned
the corner I found my head pivoting on my neck. I was looking over my
shoulder at the face of the house, was wondering which was her window.

"Like a love-sick boy--like a damn love-sick boy," I growled at myself.
My sense of humour was returning to me. There began a pilgrimage in
search of companionship.

London was a desert more solitary than was believable. On those
brilliant summer evenings the streets were crowded, were alive, bustled
with the chitter-chatter of footsteps, with the chitter-chatter of
voices, of laughter.

It was impossible to walk, impossible to do more than tread on one's own
toes; one was almost blinded by the constant passing of faces. It was
like being in a wheat-field with one's eyes on a level with the
indistinguishable ears. One was alone in one's intense contempt for all
these faces, all these contented faces; one towered intellectually above
them; one towered into regions of rarefaction. And down below they
enjoyed themselves. One understood life better; they better how to live.
That struck me then--in Oxford Street. There was the intense
good-humour, the absolute disregard of the minor inconveniences, of the
inconveniences of a crowd, of the ignominy of being one of a crowd.
There was the intense poetry of the soft light, the poetry of the
summer-night coolness, and they understood how to enjoy it. I turned up
an ancient court near Bedford Row.

"In the name of God," I said, "I will enjoy ..." and I did. The poetry
of those old deserted quarters came suddenly home to me--all the little
commonplace thoughts; all the commonplace associations of Georgian
London. For the time I was done with the meanings of things.

I was seeking Lea--he was not at home. The quarter was honeycombed with
the homes of people one knows; of people one used to know, excellent
young