every word being a supreme incantation. And it was
not only his mind that was charmed by such passages, for he felt at
the same time a strange and delicious bodily languor that held him
motionless, without the desire or power to stir from his seat. And there
were certain phrases in _Kubla Khan_ that had such a magic that he would
sometimes wake up, as it were, to the consciousness that he had been
lying on the bed or sitting in the chair by the bureau, repeating a
single line over and over again for two or three hours. Yet he knew
perfectly well that he had not been really asleep; a little effort
recalled a constant impression of the wall-paper, with its pink flowers
on a buff ground, and of the muslin-curtained window, letting in the grey
winter light. He had been some seven months in London when this odd
experience first occurred to him. The day opened dreary and cold and
clear, with a gusty and restless wind whirling round the corner of the
street, and lifting the dead leaves and scraps of paper that littered the
roadway into eddying mounting circles, as if a storm of black rain were
to come. Lucian had sat late the night before, and rose in the morning
feeling weary and listless and heavy-headed. While he dressed, his legs
dragged him as with weights, and he staggered and nearly fell in bending
down to the mat outside for his tea-tray. He lit the spirit lamp on the
hearth with shaking, unsteady hands, and could scarcely pour out the tea
when it was ready. A delicate cup of tea was one of his few luxuries; he
was fond of the strange flavor of the green leaf, and this morning he
drank the straw-colored liquid eagerly, hoping it would disperse the
cloud of languor. He tried his best to coerce himself into the sense of
vigor and enjoyment with which he usually began the day, walking briskly
up and down and arranging his papers in order. But he could not free
himself from depression; even as he opened the dear bureau a wave of
melancholy came upon him, and he began to ask himself whether he were not
pursuing a vain dream, searching for treasures that had no existence. He
drew out his cousin's letter and read it again, sadly enough. After all
there was a good deal of truth in what she said; he had "overrated" his
powers, he had no friends, no real education. He began to count up the
months since he had come to London; he had received his two thousand
pounds in March, and in May he had said good-bye to the woods and to the
d