Resolution: he would go. Yes, he would go on to the boat: it was the only way. The cab passed a bill-poster's hoarding. A drama being played in London just then was: The Only Way. The mind of the man in the cab had run in keeping with the theatre announcement. He thought of Sidney Carton.
He would go! The hero of that Tale of Two Cities was not the only man who had made sacrifices for the woman he loved; although his own sacrifice was hardly worth such a name. In his heart he wished it greater.
The thought trembled through his mind, result of the years of journalistic labour, that his cruise would serve in affording a supply of copy. He hated himself for the thought; it seemed to sully the purity of his motive, his love. He wanted to give to the woman he loved whole-souled service. Yet was weak enough to want an excuse.
Sidney Carton, when his good work was accomplished, died on the scaffold. When Masters had accomplished his good work—well, there would be time enough to think of that later.
Life was worth living just then: for her sake. It would have little value to him after; after its work was over. Then he would be content, wishful to rest.
The cab had reached Parliament Street. The fare's hand went through the roof trap; the driver reined up.
"There is a passenger—ship's passenger—agent's, somewhere round here," he called up to the bending-down driver, "Cockspur Street, I think; do you know it?"
"So many about, sir. Might you happen to know the name, sir?"
"M'no. Yes! I have just remembered it: Sewell and Crowther."
"Oh, yes; I know the place, sir. Do you want to drive there?"