And now she had asked him.

“Certainly!” Louis jumped to his feet, and off he went upstairs.  Most probably, if the sudden delicious thought had not skipped into Rachel’s brain, he would never have made that critical ascent to the first floor.

A gas-jet burned low on the landing.

“Let’s have a little light on the subject,” he cheerfully muttered to himself, as he turned on the gas to the full.

Then in the noisy blaze of yellow and blue light he went to the window and with a single fierce wrench he succeeded in pulling the catch into position.  He was proud of his strength.  It pleased him to think of the weakness of women; it pleased him to anticipate the impressed thanks of the weak women for this exertion of his power on their behalf.  “Have you managed it so soon?” his aunt would exclaim, and he would answer in a carefully offhand way, “Of course.  Why not?”

He was about to descend, but he remembered that he must not leave the gas at full.  With his hand on the tap, he glanced perfunctorily around the little landing.  The door of Mrs. Maldon’s bedroom was in front of him, at right angles to the window.  By the door, which was ajar, stood a cane-seated chair.  Underneath the chair he perceived a whitish package or roll that seemed to be out of place there on the floor.  He stooped and picked it up.  And as the paper rustled peculiarly in his hand, he could feel his heart give a swift bound.  He opened the roll.  It consisted of nothing whatever but bank-notes.  He listened intently, with ear cocked and rigid limbs, and he could just catch the soothing murmur of women’s voices in the parlour beneath the reverberating, solemn pulse of the lobby clock.

IV

Louis Fores had been intoxicated into a condition of poesy.  He was deliciously incapable of any precise thinking; he could not formulate any theory to account for the startling phenomenon of a roll of bank-notes loose under a chair on a first-floor landing of his great-aunt’s house; he could not even estimate the value of the roll—­he felt only that it was indefinitely prodigious.  But he had the most sensitive appreciation of the exquisite beauty of those pieces of paper.  They were not merely beautiful because they stood for delight and indulgence, raising lovely visions of hosiers’ and jewellers’ shops and the night interiors of clubs and restaurants—­raising one clear vision of himself clasping a watch-bracelet on the soft arm of Rachel who had so excitingly smiled upon him a moment ago.  They were beautiful in themselves; the aspect and very texture of them were beautiful—­surpassing pictures and fine scenery.  They were the most poetic things in the world.  They transfigured the narrow, gaslit first-floor landing of his great-aunt’s house into a secret and unearthly grove of bliss.  He was drunk with quivering emotion.