Edwin closed the door of his bedroom with a sense of relief and of
pleasure far greater than he would have admitted; or indeed could
honestly have admitted, for it surpassed his consciousness. The feeling
recurred that he was separated from the previous evening by a tremendous
expanse of time. He had been flung out of his daily habits. He had
forgotten to worry over the execution of his private programmes. He had
forgotten even that the solemn thirtieth birthday was close upon him.
It seemed to him as if his own egoism was lying about in scattered
pieces, which he must collect in the calm of this cloister, and
reconstruct. He wanted to resume possession of himself, very slowly,
without violent effort. He wound up his watch; the hour was not yet
half-past ten. The whole exquisite night was his.
He had brought with him from the shop, almost mechanically, a copy of
"Harper's Magazine," not the copy which regularly once a month he kept
from a customer during the space of twenty-four hours for his own uses,
but a second copy which had been sent down by the wholesale agents in
mistake, and which he could return when he chose. He had already seen
the number, but he could not miss the chance of carefully going through
it at leisure. Despite his genuine aspirations, despite his taste which
was growing more and more fastidious, he found it exceedingly difficult
to proceed with his regular plan of reading while there was an
illustrated magazine unexplored. Besides, the name of "Harper's" was
august. To read "Harper's" was to acquire merit; even the pictures in
"Harper's" were too subtle for the uncultivated.
He turned over the pages, and they all appeared to promise new and
strange joys. Such preliminary moments were the most ecstatic in his
life, as in the lives of many readers. He had not lost sight of the
situation created by his father's illness, but he could only see it very
dimly through the semi-transparent pages.
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