Everyone is making plans for me. This irritates me. My cousin, Tom Geraghty, Knoblock—would I spend two or three days in the country and get a rest? No. I don't want to rest. Will you see somebody? I don't want to see anybody. I want to be left entirely alone. I've just got to have my whim.
I make a pretence at lunch. I whisper to Carl, "You explain everything to them—tell them that I am going out immediately after lunch." I am merely taking the lunch to discipline myself.
I look out the window. The crowds are still there. What a problem! How am I going to get out without being recognised? Shall I openly suggest going out, so I can get away? I hate disappointing them. But I must go out.
Tom Geraghty, Donald Crisp, and myself suggest taking a walk. I do not tell them my plans, merely suggest taking the walk. We go through the back way and escape. I am sure that everything is all right, and that no one will recognise me. I cannot stand the strain any longer. I tell Donald and Tom—they really must leave me alone. I want to be alone, and want to visit alone. They understand. Tom is a good sort and so is Donald. I do not want to ride, but just for a quicker means of getting away I call a taxicab.
I tell him to drive to Lambeth. He is a good driver, and an old one. He has not recognised me, thank heaven!
But he is going too fast. I tell him to drive slower, to take his time. I sit back now. I am passing Westminster Bridge again. I see it better. Things are more familiar. On the other side is the new London County Council building. They have been building it for years. They started it before I left.
The Westminster Road has become very dilapidated, but perhaps it is because I am riding in an automobile. I used to travel across it another way. It doesn't seem so long ago, either.
My God! Look! Under the bridge! There's the old blind man. I stop the driver and drive back. We pull up outside the Canterbury.
"You wait there, or do you want me to pay you off?" He will wait. I walk back.
There he is, the same old figure, the same old blind man I used to see as a child of five, with the same old earmuffs, with his back against the wall and the same stream of greasy water trickling down the stone behind his back.