She had upon me the effect of an incredible stimulant; away from her I
was like a drunkard cut off from his liquor; an opium-taker from his
drug. I hardly existed; I hardly thought.

I had an errand at my aunt's house; had a message to deliver,
sympathetic enquiries to make--and I wanted to see her, to gain some
sort of information from her; to spy out the land; to ask her for terms.
There was a change in the appearance of the house, an adventitious
brightness that indicated the rise in the fortunes of the family. For me
the house was empty and the great door closed hollowly behind me. My
sister was not at home. It seemed abominable to me that she should be
out; that she could be talking to anyone, or could exist without me. I
went sullenly across the road to the palings of the square. As I turned
the corner I found my head pivoting on my neck. I was looking over my
shoulder at the face of the house, was wondering which was her window.

"Like a love-sick boy--like a damn love-sick boy," I growled at myself.
My sense of humour was returning to me. There began a pilgrimage in
search of companionship.

London was a desert more solitary than was believable. On those
brilliant summer evenings the streets were crowded, were alive, bustled
with the chitter-chatter of footsteps, with the chitter-chatter of
voices, of laughter.

It was impossible to walk, impossible to do more than tread on one's own
toes; one was almost blinded by the constant passing of faces. It was
like being in a wheat-field with one's eyes on a level with the
indistinguishable ears. One was alone in one's intense contempt for all