In London, ever
since, it had never really left him. But to-day it now suddenly became
more than expectation--he felt it in him as a certainty that
approached fulfilment. It was strange, it was bewildering; it seemed
to him as though something from that under-self he could never
properly reach within him, pushed upwards with a kind of aggressive
violence towards the surface. It was both sweet and vital. Behind the
'something' was the 'some one' who led it into action.
At half-past six he strolled down a deserted St. James's Street,
passed the door of his club with no temptation to go in, and climbed
the stairs slowly to his rooms. His body was languid though his mind
alert. He sank into an arm-chair beside the open window. 'I must
_do_ something to-night,' he thought eagerly; 'mere reading at the
club is out of the question. I'll go to a theatre or--or--.' He
considered various alternatives, deciding finally upon Richmond Park.
He loved long walks at night when his mind was restless thus; the air
in Richmond Park was peculiarly fresh and scented after dark. He knew
the little gate that was never closed. He would dine lightly, and go
for a ten-mile stretch among the oaks, surprise the deer asleep,
listen to the hum of distant London, and watch the fairy battle
between the lurid reflection of its million lights and the little
stars.
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