He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. Always remember that. She had no idea what she should do. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Taking up a link, which was blazing beside him, he walked across the room; and touching a spring in the wall, a secret door flew open. You cannot arrest yourself.
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