Yet while he dreamt other
influences were directing his movements. There were for instance
his mother, Lady Marayne, who saw a very different London from what
he did, and his mother Dame Nature, who cannot see London at all.
She was busy in his blood as she is busy in the blood of most
healthy young men; common experience must fill the gaps for us; and
patiently and thoroughly she was preparing for the entrance of that
heroine, whom not the most self-centred of heroes can altogether
avoid. . . .
And then there was the power of every day. Benham imagined himself
at large on his liberating steed of property while indeed he was
mounted on the made horse of Civilization; while he was speculating
whither he should go, he was already starting out upon the round.
One hesitates upon the magnificent plan and devotion of one's
lifetime and meanwhile there is usage, there are engagements. Every
morning came Merkle, the embodiment of the established routine, the
herald of all that the world expected and required Benham to be and
do. Usually he awakened Benham with the opening of his door and the
soft tinkle of the curtain rings as he let in the morning light.
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