He was nervously impatient to reach this stage.

Since his last visit to Eastbourne he had seen no friends in civilised London, and now that he had no longer lectures to write, his state of mind grew ever more unsatisfactory.

Loneliness, though to so great an extent self-imposed, weighed upon him intolerably.

He believed that he was going through the dreariest time of his life.
How often he thought with envy of the little parlour in Walnut Tree Walk! To toil oneself weary through a long day in a candle factory, and then come back to the evening meal, with the certainty that a sweet young face would be there to meet one with its smile, sweet lips to give affectionate welcome--that would be better than this life which he led.

He wished to go there again, but feared to do so without invitation.