Cool with sound short sleep she rose early, the memory of yesterday giving a Sunday leisure to the usual anxious hurry of breakfast. She was strong with her own possessions. Wimpole Street held nothing but her contract of duties to fulfil. These she could see in a clear vexatious tangle, against the exciting on-coming of everybody's summer; an excitement that was enough in itself. Patients were pouring out of town--in a fortnight the Orlys would be gone; all Mr. Orly's accounts must be out by then. In a month Mr. Hancock would go. For a month before her own holiday there would be almost nothing to do. If everyone's accounts were examined before then, she could get them off at leisure during that month ... then for this month there was nothing to do but the lessening daily duties and to get everyone to examine accounts; then the house to herself, with only Mr. Leyton there; the cool ease of summer in her room, and her own month ahead. 2 The little lavatory with its long high window sending in the light from across the two sets of back to back tree-shaded Bloomsbury gardens, its little shabby open sink cupboard facing her with its dim unpolished taps and the battered enamel cans on its cracked and blistered wooden top became this morning one of her own rooms, a happy little corner in the growing life that separated her from Wimpole Street. There were no corners such as this in the beautiful clever Hampstead house; no remote shabby happy corners at all; nothing brown and old and at peace. Between him and his house were his housekeeper and servants; between him and his life was his profession ... and the complex group of people with whom he must perpetually deal, with whom he dealt in alternations of intimacy and formality. He was still at his best in his practice. That was still his life. There was nothing more real as yet in his life than certain times and moments in his room at Wimpole Street.... Life had answered no other questions for him.... His thought-life and his personal life were troubled and dark and cold ... in spite of his attachment to some of his family group ... he could buy beautiful things, and travel freely in his leisure ... perhaps that, those two glorious things, were sufficient compensation. But there was something wrong about them; they gave a false sense of power ... the way all those people smiled at each other when they went about and bought things, picked up a fine thing at a bargain, or gave a price whose size they were proud of ... thinking other people's thoughts ... apart from this worldly side of his life, he was entirely at Wimpole Street; the whole of him; an open book; there was nothing else in his life, yet ... his holiday with those two men--even the soft-voiced sensuous one who would quote poetry and talk romantically and cynically about women in the evenings--would bring nothing else. Yet he was counting upon it so much that he could not help