them the room, the other contiguous rooms, extraordinarily, seemed
lighter--so light, almost, that at first he took the change for day. He
stood firm, however that might be, just where he had paused; his
resistance had helped him--it was as if there were something he had tided
over. He knew after a little what this was--it had been in the imminent
danger of flight. He had stiffened his will against going; without this
he would have made for the stairs, and it seemed to him that, still with
his eyes closed, he would have descended them, would have known how,
straight and swiftly, to the bottom.

Well, as he had held out, here he was--still at the top, among the more
intricate upper rooms and with the gauntlet of the others, of all the
rest of the house, still to run when it should be his time to go. He
would go at his time--only at his time: didn't he go every night very
much at the same hour? He took out his watch--there was light for that:
it was scarcely a quarter past one, and he had never withdrawn so soon.
He reached his lodgings for the most part at two--with his walk of a
quarter of an hour. He would wait for the last quarter--he wouldn't stir
till then; and he kept his watch there with his eyes on it, reflecting
while he held it that this deliberate wait, a wait with an effort, which
he recognised, would serve perfectly for the attestation he desired to
make. It would prove his courage--unless indeed the latter might most be
proved by his budging at last from his place. What he mainly felt now
was that, since he hadn't originally scuttled, he had his dignities--which
had never in his life seemed so many--all to preserve and to carry aloft.
This was before him in truth as a physical image, an image almost worthy
of an age of greater romance. That remark indeed glimmered for him only
to glow the next instant with a finer light; since what age of romance,
after all, could have matched either the state of his mind or,
"objectively," as they said, the wonder of his situation? The only