His heart did battle, and at moments assailed him in a
triumph of heroic desire; but then again came the sinking moments,
the sense of a grovelling fellowship with people he despised.
It was raining. His shopping done, he entered an omnibus, which took
him as far as the Marble Arch; thence, beneath his umbrella, he
walked in search of Bryanston Square. Here was Dr. Derwent's house.
Very much like a burglar, a beginner at the business, making survey
of his field, he moved timidly into the Square, and sought the
number; having found it with unexpected suddenness, he hurried past.
To be detected here would be dreadful; he durst not go to the
opposite side, lest Irene should perchance be at a window; yet he
wanted to observe the house, and did, from behind his umbrella, when
a few doors away.
Never had he known what it was to feel such an insignificant mortal.
Standing here in the rain, he saw no distinction between himself and
the ragged, muddy crossing-sweeper; alike, they were lost in the
huge welter of common London. On the other hand, there in the
hard-fronted, exclusive-looking house sat Irene Derwent, a pearl of
women, the prize of wealth, distinction, and high manliness. What
was this wild dream he had been harbouring? Like a chill wind,
reality smote him in the face; he turned away, saying to himself
that he was cured of folly.
On the journey home he shaped a project.
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