Yes, again: I had felt sure
the staircase lay to the right. I knew by heart the Ionic pattern of
its broad balusters; the tick of the tall clock, standing at the first
turn of the stairs; the vista down the glazed door opening on the
stable-yard. When the landlord returned with my portmanteau and a
candle and I followed him up-stairs, I was asking myself for the
twentieth time--'When--in what stage of my soul's history--had I been
doing all this before? And what on earth was that tune that kept
humming in my head?'
I dismissed these speculations as I entered the bedroom and began to
fling off my dusty clothes. I had almost forgotten about them by the
time I began to wash away my travel-stains, and rinse the coal-dust out
of my hair. My spirits revived, and I began mentally to arrange my
plans for the next day. The prospect of dinner, too, after my cold
drive was wonderfully comforting. Perhaps (thought I), there is good
wine in this inn; it is just the house wherein travellers find, or boast
that they find, forgotten bins of Burgundy or Teneriffe. When my
landlord returned to conduct me to the Blue Room, I followed him down to
the first landing in the lightest of spirits.
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