nto his imagined
world, flowers blossomed in it, trees swayed in the wind, larks went
soaring above green hills blazing with yellow gorse, birds hopped to
their nests and sang, dogs barked and gambolled with delight--all his
frozen memories slowly melted, and sweet and simple pleasures came to
view to make a setting meet for Clara Day. And he remembered simple
people with a steady kindness, people like the little bookseller who
knew their world but believed in its redeeming goodness, people like a
woman who had once nursed him through a terrible illness and had never
ceased to pray for him, families where in his lonely youth in London he
had been welcome--all these he remembered and grouped round Clara to
make a better and a simpler world.

When his agony had run its course, and his old hypnotic will was
broken, he told himself that he must be content that Clara should be
the mistress of his imagination, since he had wrecked his own life and
had nothing to offer her. Obviously she had found the world good.
Nothing in her was theatrical, nothing baffled. He must reconcile
himself to the acceptance of those two days with her as in themselves
perfect, sufficient, and fruitful. Indeed, what need was there of
more? They had met as profoundly as they could ever hope to meet. She
would marry her lord, and gather about herself all the good and
pleasant things of the earth, and he could return to his work and build
it up anew.

With his rather absurd tendency to generalise from his personal
experience he told himself that as youth and joy had been liberated
from his imagined world, so also would they be in the world of
actuality. His drooping hopes revived and a new ambition was kindled
in him. He paced less rapidly to and fro in his empty room, slowed
down day by day until he stopped, sat at his table and plunged once
more into work. His arrogance reasserted itself, and he told
himself--as was indeed the case--that he could extract more from a hint
of experience than the ordinary man could from an overwhelming tragedy.

As he worked, he came more and more to regard his encounter with Clara
as a holiday adventure. The Charing Cross Road was to him what Paris
or the seaside was to the ordinary worker. The episode belonged to his
holiday. It was nothing more, and must be treated as though it had
happened to some other man: it must be smiled at, treasured for its
fragrance, blessed for its fertility.... With the new