Chapter 29

Before leaving Fan at her own door Mr. Eden did not neglect to make a
mental note of the number, although to make it out was not easy owing to
the obscure veil that time, weather, and London smoke had thrown over the
gilded figures. From Charlotte Street he walked slowly and thoughtfully
to his rooms in Albemarle Street. "I feel too tired to go anywhere to-
night," he said. "From the remotest wilds of Notting Hill to the eastern
boundaries of Marylebone--a long walk even with such a companion. That
young person I took for a lady is an all-round fraud. That delicate style
of beauty is very deceptive; she would walk a camel off its legs."

A fire was burning brightly in his sitting-room; and throwing himself
into a comfortable easy-chair before it, he lit a cigar, and began to
think about things in general.

He did not feel quite settled in his London rooms, which he had taken
furnished, and in which he had lived off and on for a period of eighteen
months. He was always thinking of going abroad again to resume the
wanderings which had been prematurely ended by the tidings of his
father's death. But he was indolent, a lover of pleasure, with plenty of
money, and a year and a half had slipped insensibly by. There was no need
to do things in a hurry, he said; his inclination was everything: when he
had a mind to travel he would travel, and when it suited his mood he
would rest at home. He did not care very much about anything. His
teachers had failed to make anything of him.

His father, who had retired from the military profession rather early in
life, had wished him to go into the army; but he was not urgent, speaking
to him less like a father to a son than a middle-aged gentleman to a
young friend in whom he took a considerable interest, but who was his own
master. "It's all very well to say 'Go into the army,'" his son would
answer; "but I can't do it in the way you did, and I strongly object to
the competitive system." And so the matter ended.

It was perhaps in a great measure due to his easygoing, unambitious
character that he had not taken actively to evil courses. The poet is no
doubt right when he says:

Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.

But it is after all a small amount of mischief and of a somewhat mild
description compared with that which he inspires in the busy, pushing,
energetic man. But in spite of his moral debility and his small sympathy
with enthusiasms of any kind, he was much liked by those who knew him. In
a quiet way he was observant, and not without humour, which gave a
pleasant flavour to his conversation. Moreover he was good-tempered, even
to those who bored him, slow to take offence, easily