Christopher and Faith arrived in London on an afternoon at the end of
winter, and beheld from one of the river bridges snow-white scrolls of
steam from the tall chimneys of Lambeth, rising against the livid sky
behind, as if drawn in chalk on toned cardboard.
The first thing he did that evening, when settled in their apartments
near the British Museum, before applying himself to the beginning of the
means by which success in life might be attained, was to go out in the
direction of Ethelberta's door, leaving Faith unpacking the things, and
sniffing extraordinary smoke-smells which she discovered in all nooks and
crannies of the rooms. It was some satisfaction to see Ethelberta's
house, although the single feature in which it differed from the other
houses in the Crescent was that no lamp shone from the fanlight over the
entrance--a speciality which, if he cared for omens, was hardly
encouraging. Fearing to linger near lest he might be detected,
Christopher stole a glimpse at the door and at the steps, imagined what a
trifle of the depression worn in each step her feet had tended to
produce, and strolled home again.
Feeling that his reasons for calling just now were scarcely sufficient,
he went next day about the business that had brought him to town, which
referred to a situation as organist in a large church in the north-west
district. The post was half ensured already, and he intended to make of
it the nucleus of a professional occupation and income. Then he sat down
to think of the preliminary steps towards publishing the song that had so
pleased her, and had also, as far as he could understand from her letter,
hit the popular taste very successfully; a fact which, however little it
may say for the virtues of the song as a composition, was a great
recommendation to it as a property. Christopher was delighted to
perceive that out of this position he could frame an admissible, if not
an unimpeachable, reason for calling upon Ethelberta. He determined to
do so at once, and obtain the required permission by word of mouth.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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