Gone was the Cockney young man with the sandy
moustache, the cheap silk hat worn at various angles to give himself a
rakish air, the flashy clothes, cheap and pretentious, the assured, not
to say bumptious air so sedulously copied from the deportment of his
employer. Enter a new and completely transformed Alfred Burton, an
inoffensive-looking young man in a neat gray suit, a lilac-colored tie
of delicate shade, a flannel shirt with no pretence at cuffs, but with a
spotless turned down collar, a soft Homburg hat, a clean-shaven lip.
With a new sense of self-respect and an immense feeling of relief,
Burton, after a few moments' hesitation, directed his footsteps towards
the National Gallery. He had once been there years ago on a wet Bank
Holiday, and some faint instinct of memory which somehow or other had
survived the burden of his sordid days suddenly reasserted itself. He
climbed the steps and passed through the portals with the beating heart
of the explorer who climbs his last hill. It was his entrance, this,
into the new world whose call was tearing at his heartstrings. He
bought no catalogue, he asked no questions. From room to room he passed
with untiring footsteps. His whole being was filled with the
immeasurable relief, the almost passionate joy, of one who for the first
time is able to gratify a new and marvelous appetite.
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