resolution as to what I should do in the immediate future.

Everything seemed to depend on something else, and it was impossible
to find any positive basis upon which I could found a resolve.

If I could succeed as an author, my way was clear, but if I could
not, and if . . . and if . . . And so on through a wearying,
perplexing series of conditions.

Just then I felt unequal to regulating and giving order to this
inward chaos, and I abandoned the attempt.

Meanwhile I would go over to the house in South Kensington, whence
the letter had come.

It was about eleven when I arrived there, and I was told Miss Grant
was "upstairs, as usual."

I nodded, and went up the necessary six flights of stairs to a
familiar landing on the third floor.

A door in front of me stood ajar, and with a sign to Nous to remain
on the stairs, I knocked at it.

There was no answer and no sound from within, and thinking the room
was empty after all, I pushed the door wide and went in.

It was a huge room, used as a studio, facing the north light, and
with three large windows.