Going to his wife’s dressing-table he took up the hand-mirror, so as to get a better side-view. The plate-like appearance persisted: quarter, three-quarter, and back view were always the same. The emanation was not flat, then, but round; a glory of three dimensions encircled him, and he moved in a globe of light which, like a head of dandelion seed, was brightest toward the edge, yet so faint and unsubstantial, it seemed as though a breath might blow it away.
Once more he brushed his hair for experiment. The lemon-coloured flame did not deflect or waver from its outward symmetry; nor did his head experience any electric thrills, as though virtue were passing either into him or out of him. With a slight sense of disappointment he laid his brushes down, and put on his coat. This, he found on consulting the glass, had made no change, except that upon the black cloth fell a slight radiance; but when for further experiment he once more switched on the light, it almost disappeared; and against the window, looking back at himself in the hand-mirror, for a moment he persuaded himself that it had gone. But if an involuntary wish had fathered that thought, he had only to move away from the light for its form and colour to reappear as strongly as ever; and as it responded with unvarying consistency to all the experiments he played on it, so did his sense of its reality become a conviction. It was not merely an idea, it was a fact.
And then the feeble tinkle of a bell below told him of breakfast. He went out on to the landing and peeped over the banisters.
Hearing dilatory sounds among the breakfast things, ‘Mrs. James,’ he called, ‘you needn’t wait.’ And a minute later, on hearing her descend to the basement, he came downstairs at a run.
At table, in case Mrs. James should find excuse to return, he took his wife’s place instead of his own, sitting with his back to the window; and found, in that position, though the morning was still dark, that he could see into his egg quite easily. Thus, even while away from his mirror, the sense of something real, not imaginary, remained with him.
But it gave him no joy; for though in himself he felt at unity with this day-spring from on high that had visited him, he was doubtful how it would appear to the outside world—whether the world was ripe for it—whether, indeed, it was intended for the outside world at all. It was already in his mind that if he entered his Mission Centre office by the ordinary way, he would have to run the gauntlet of a roomful of clerks; and that his unexplained accompaniment might provoke comment, possibly even mirth. And Mr. Trimblerigg, even with reason on his side, was not one who liked to be laughed at.
Unable to make up his mind what he felt about it himself, now, as he considered the matter from the worldly point of view, he began to regard it with less and less favour. He could not but feel that for such a manifestation as this the world needed preparation; a publicity campaign should have gone first and some more obvious occasion should have been found for its first appearance—this, in all humility—than one so merely personal to himself, a testimonial to the integrity of his character.
And then—to give the first test to his doubts—came the interrogative Mrs. James, merely wishing to know what meals he would be in for, and whether, if callers came to inquire for him, he would name any time when he should be at home.
Mr. Trimblerigg, keeping his head in the light of the window, gave her the required instructions, and saw at once from the uneventful expression of her face that she had noticed nothing.
This threw him suddenly back upon doubt; and no sooner had she returned to her kitchen than he ran upstairs again, and looked once more in the glass.