He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. They were things I had meant very much to talk to you about, so that I went home vexed and disappointed, and only relieved myself a little by writing a few verses. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road.
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