It was when Edwin fairly reached the platform at Victoria Station and
saw the grandiose express waiting its own moment to start, that the
strange irrational quality of his journey first fully impressed him and
frightened him--so much that he was almost ready to walk out of the
station again. To come gradually into London from the North, to pass
from the Manchester train half-full of Midlanders through Bloomsbury
into the preoccupied, struggling, and untidy Strand--this gave no shock,
typified nothing definite. But, having spent a night in London,
deliberately to leave it for the South, where he had never been, of
which he was entirely ignorant,--that was like an explicit
self-committal, like turning the back on the last recognisable landmark
in an ill-considered voyage of pure adventure.
The very character of Victoria Station and of this express was different
from that of any other station and express in his experience. It was
unstrenuous, soft; it had none of the busy harshness of the Midlands; it
spoke of pleasure, relaxation, of spending free from all worry and
humiliation of getting. Everybody who came towards this train came with
an assured air of wealth and of dominion. Everybody was well dressed;
many if not most of the women were in furs; some had expensive and
delicate dogs; some had pale, elegant footmen, being too august even to
speak to porters. All the luggage was luxurious; handbags could be seen
that were worth fifteen or twenty pounds apiece. There was no question
of first, second, or third class; there was no class at all on this
train. Edwin had the apologetic air of the provincial who is determined
to be as good as anybody else. When he sat down in the vast interior of
one of those gilded vehicles he could not dismiss from his face the
consciousness that he was an intruder, that he did not belong to that
world. He was ashamed of his hand-baggage, and his gesture in tipping
the porter lacked carelessness. Of course he pretended a frowning,
absorbed interest in a newspaper--but the very newspaper was strange; he
guessed not that unless he glanced first at the penultimate column of
page one thereof he convicted himself of not knowing his way about.
He could not think consecutively, not even of his adventure. His brain
was in a maze of anarchy. But at frequent intervals recurred the query:
"What the devil am I up to?" And he would uneasily smile to himself.
When the train rolled with all its majesty out of the station and across
the Thames, he said to himself, fearful, "Well, I've done it now!"
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