these two matters may be taken as the
measure of my desire to join the ranks of the others, it is safe to
say I must have desired it very much indeed.

XII

Every one has noticed the odd vividness with which certain apparently
unmemorable episodes stand out among one's recollections, though the
details of far more important occasions have become merged in the huge
and nebulous mist of the things one has forgotten. (Memory is a
longish gallery, but the mass of that which is unremembered, how
enormous this is!)

I recall a Sunday evening in Dursley. I had been to church, a rare
thing for me, of an evening, to hear a strange, visiting parson; a man
who had done missionary work in east London and in Northern
Queensland. I remember nothing that he said, and nothing occurred that
night to make it memorable for me. And yet ...

The aftermath of the sunset beyond Dursley valley was very beautiful.
It often was. Venus shone out with mellow brilliance a little to the
right of the church. The air was full of bush scents, and somewhere,
not far from where I stood, dead brushwood was burning and diffusing
abroad the aromatic pungency that fire draws from eucalyptus leaves.

Gradually, I was overcome by that sense of the infinitely romantic
potentialities of life which I suppose overpowers all young people at
times; and, more especially, rather lonely young people. The main
events of my short life filed past before me in review against the
background of an exquisitely melancholy evening sky, illumined by one
perfect star. Even this dim light was further softened for me
presently by the moisture that gathered in my eyes; tears that pricked
with a pain that was almost intolerably sweet. I recalled how, as a
child, I had longed to see strange and far-off lands; how I had
bragged to servants and childish companions that I would travel. And
then, how I had travelled--the _Ariadne_, my companions, my father,
the derelict, Livorno Bay. And then, the blow that cut off all I had
held by, and made of me an unconsidered scrap, owning nothing, and
owned by nobody.

I had been very miserable at the Orphanage. Yes, there was distinct
pleasure in recalling and weighing the sum of my unhappiness at St.
Peter's. I had longed to be quit of it; I had willed to be out in the
open world, free to make what I could of my own life. And, behold, I
was free. My will had accomplished this, had brushed aside the
restraining bonds of the whole organ