Human lack of power in moderating and checking the emotions I call servitude. For a man who is submissive to his emotions is not in power over himself, but in the hands of fortune to such an extent that he is often constrained, although he may see what is better for him, to follow what is worse.--SPINOZA'S _Ethics_. CATHLEEN lived in Bloomsbury with a friend of hers, a Miss Cleethorpe, who managed a hostel for young women, clerks, schoolmistresses, shop girls. René took her there after their long conversation in Kensington Gardens, and then, feeling the impossibility of going back to Mitcham Mews, went up to Kentish Town to see his friend the sandy-haired railway porter. He had visited him once before, about a year ago, and could think of no one else with whom he might take refuge. The little man was delighted to see him: "It's the sleeper!" he cried. "Lord! I've often wondered if you'd go off again, and when you told me you were in the taxi-driving, I said to myself: 'Well, that'll keep him awake.'" Yes. He would be glad to let him have a bed. Wanting to sleep, eh? He often felt like that himself: day after day, day after day, working, and the suburban traffic growing so fast that they couldn't put on enough trains, and the station morning and evening was like Bedlam. "London," he said, "is not what it was when I first came to it. I used to know all the regular gentlemen. But now--well, I tell you, they don't have a nod for anyone. A bee-line for the city in the morning, and a bee-line for home in the evening. It makes you feel small, it does." René sympathized with him. His days also had been devoted to impersonal service, and he had known the humiliation of it. Now his only desire was to see Cathleen again. To taste once more the vigor and keen energy with which her presence filled him. The thought of her was not enough. It roused a flood of emotion too strong for his unpracticed control. He warmed to the idea of her beauty. When he was with her her beauty was axiomatic, food for rejoicing without disturbance, a mere accident, one to be thankful for, yet no more than a light bidding to the thrilling pursuit of her elusiveness. He had arranged to see her the next day in the evening. She worked as secretary in an Art School and was not free until after five. He spent the day in happy brooding over the coming delight of seeing her, and preparing with boyish dandyism for it. He had his hair cut and his chin shaved (he had grown a mustache), and he bought a clean shirt and collar. In a book shop he saw the anthology from which they had read together and could not resist going in and buying it. He was ashamed of himself when he had done that, and hid it away among the railway porter's rather strange collection of books--More's _Utopia_, _The Master Christian_, _Marcus Aurelius_, some books of Edward Carpenter's, _Foxe's Book of Martyrs_, and _Arsène Lupin_.