He
had cursed the temper of his blood; he had raved at himself for
vulgar gratifications; and once more the struggle was renewed.
Asceticism in diet had failed him doubly; it reduced his power of
wholesome exertion, and caused a mental languor treacherous to his
chief purpose. Nowadays he ate and drank like any other of the sons
of men, on the whole to his plain advantage.
A day or two after receiving a letter from Mrs. Hannaford, in which
she told him of her removal to Dr. Derwent's house, he bade farewell
to his father.
To his hotel in London, that night, came a note he had expected.
Mrs. Hannaford asked him to call in Bryanston Square at eleven the
next morning.
As he approached the house, memories shamed him. How he had slunk
about the square under his umbrella; how he had turned away in black
despair after that "Not at home"; his foolish long-tailed coat, his
glistening stovepipe! To-day, with scarce a thought for his dress,
he looked merely what he was: an educated man, of average physique,
of intelligent visage, of easy hearing. For all that, his heart
throbbed as he stood at the door, and with catching breath, he
followed the servant upstairs.
Before Mrs. Hannaford appeared, he had time to glance round the
drawing-room, which was simpler in array than is common in such
houses. His eye fell upon a portrait, a large crayon drawing, hung
in a place of honour; he knew it must represent Irene's mother;
there was a resemblance to the face which haunted him, with more of
sweetness, with a riper humanity.
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