That was what struck him afresh after he had mounted the large old stair
and begun to pass from room to room: there was something in his
impression so indefinably prepared by other hands that acknowledgment
surely ought somehow and somewhere to be made. It all came back of
course soon enough to thanking Mr. Pendrel, and this in truth Ralph
sufficiently did by his mere attitude from point to point. That was the
question on the whole as to which he was easiest; wherever he paused to
draw a long breath and again look round he felt his gratitude carry and
his appreciation in a singular degree picked up and noted. Not yet for
that matter had it so affected him this evening as returning richly upon
himself. The cold rain was on his window-pane, and it damped the great
London hum. These squares of old glass were small and many and the
frames that enclosed them thick; the appropriate recess, of which no
window failed, was deep, and Ralph could as he looked out rest a knee on
the flat cushion, all flowered and faded, that covered the solid bench.
He looked out only to look in again under the charm of isolation and
enclosure, of being separated from the splashed Square and its blurred
and distant life much more by time than by space; under the charm above
all of the queer incomparable London light--unless one frankly loved it
rather as London shade--which he had repeatedly noted as so strange as
to be at its finest sinister, and which just now scattered as never
before its air over what surrounded him. However else this air might
have been described it was signally not the light of freshness and
suggested as little as possible the element in which the first children
of nature might have begun to take notice. Ages, generations,
inventions, corruptions had produced it, and it seemed, wherever it
rested, to have filtered through the bed of history. It made the objects
about show for the time as in something "turned on"--something highly
successful that he might have seen at the theatre. What was one to call
the confounding impression but that of some stamp, some deposit again
laid bare, of a conscious past, recognising no less than recognised?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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