“What am I doing here?” he asked himself savagely. However, by dint of sticking doggedly to it he did in the end reach the hotel.
Five.
After dinner, and wine, both of which, by their surprising and indeed unique excellence, fostered the prestige of Stifford as an authority upon hotels, Edwin was conscious of new strength and cheerfulness. He left the crowded and rose-lit dining-room early, because he was not at ease amid its ceremoniousness of attire and of service, and went into the turkey-carpeted hall, whose porter suddenly sprang into propitiatory life on seeing him. He produced a cigarette, and with passionate haste the porter produced a match, and by his method of holding the flame to the cigarette, deferential and yet firm, proved that his young existence had not been wasted in idleness. When the cigarette was alight, the porter surveyed his work with a pleased smile.
“Another rare storm blowing up, sir,” said the porter.
“Yes,” said Edwin. “It’s been giving the window of my room a fine shake.”
The porter glanced at the clock. “High tide in half an hour, sir.”
“I think I’ll go out and have a look at it,” said Edwin.
“Yes, sir.”
“By the way,” Edwin added, “I suppose you haven’t got a map of Brighton?”