almost, like poor pilgrims,
raising their eyes never or ever gazing at the moon of tarnished
endeavour. I thought of the round, insouciant faces of the monks at
whose monastery I once broke bread, and how their eyes sparkled when
they asked me of the France that lay around their walls. I thought,
pardie, of the lurid verses written by young men who, in real life, know
no haunt more lurid than a literary public-house. It was, for me,
merely a problem how I could best avoid 'sensations,' 'pulsations,'
and 'exquisite moments' that were not purely intellectual. I would not
attempt to combine both kinds, as Pater seemed to fancy a man might. I
would make myself master of some small area of physical life, a life of
quiet, monotonous simplicity, exempt from all outer disturbance. I would
shield my body from the world that my mind might range over it, not hurt
nor fettered. As yet, however, I was in my first year at Oxford. There
were many reasons that I should stay there and take my degree, reasons
that I did not combat. Indeed, I was content to wait for my life.

And now that I have made my adieux to the Benign Mother, I need wait no
longer. I have been casting my eye over the suburbs of London. I have
taken a most pleasant little villa in ----ham, and here I shall make my
home. Here there is no traffic, no harvest. Those of the inhabitants
who do anything go away each morning and do it elsewhere. Here no vital
forces unite. Nothing happens here. The days and the months will pass by
me, bringing their sure recurrence of quiet events. In the spring-time
I shall look out from my window and see the laburnum flowering in the
little front garden. In summer cool syrups will come for me from the
grocer's shop. Autumn will make the boughs of my mountain-ash scarlet,
and, later, the asbestos in my grate will put forth its blossoms of
flame. The infrequent cart of Buszard or Mudie will pass my window at
all seasons. Nor will this be all. I shall have friends. Next door,
there is a retired military man who has offered, in a most neighbourly
way, to lend me his copy of the Times. On the other side of my house
lives a charming family, who perhaps will call on me, now and again.
I have seen them sally forth, at sundown, to catch the theatre-train;
among them walked a young lady, the charm of whose figure was ill
concealed by the neat waterproof that overspread her evening dress.
Some day it may be...but I anticipate. These things will be bu