t had not defined
itself, but his thoughts were then busy with the origins of
Christianity, and it seemed to him that a study of certain Oriental
literatures would be fruitful of results. Characteristically, he must
establish himself at the very doors of the great Library. His Oriental
researches, as we know, were speedily abandoned, but the rooms in Great
Russell Street still kept their tenant. They were far from an ideal
abode, indifferently furnished, with draughty doors and smoky chimneys,
and the rent was exorbitant; the landlady, who speedily gauged her
lodger's character, had already made a small competency out of him.
Even during long absences abroad Egremont retained the domicile; at
each return he said to himself that he must really find quarters at
once more reputable and more homelike, but the thought of removing his
books, of dealing with new people, deterred him from the actual step.
In fact, was indifferent as to where or how he lived; all he asked was
the possibility of privacy. The ugliness of his surroundings did not
trouble him, for he paid no attention to them. Some day he would have a
beautiful home, but what use in thinking of that till he had someone to
share it with him? This was a mere _pied a terre_; it housed his body
and left his mind free.

The real home which he remembered was a house looking upon Clapham
Common. His father dwelt there for the last fifteen years of his life;
his mother died there, shortly after the removal from the small house
in Newington where she went to live upon her marriage. With much
tenderness Egremont thought of the clear-headed and warm-hearted man
whose life-long toil had made such provision for the son he loved.
Uneducated, homely, narrow enough in much of his thinking, the
manufacturer of oil-cloth must have had singular possibilities in his
nature to renew himself in a youth so apt for modern culture as Walter
was; thinking back in his maturity, the latter remembered many a
noteworthy trait in his father, and wished the old man could have lived
yet a few more years to see his son's work really beginning. And
Egremont often felt lonely. Possibly he had relatives living, but he
knew of none; in any case they could not now be of real account to him.
The country of his birth was far behind him; how far, he had recognised
since he began his lecturing in Lambeth. None the less, he at times
knew home-sickness: not seldom there seemed to be a gap between him and
the