John passed his arm through his brother's and led him away.
"Come and have a wash, old chap," he said.
They dined together at Luigi's, a curiously assorted trio—Sophy, between the two men, supplying a distinctly alien note. She was always gay, always amusing, but although she addressed most of her remarks to Stephen, he never once unbent. He ate and drank simply, seldom speaking of himself or his plans, and firmly negativing all their suggestions for the remainder of the evening. Occasionally he glanced at the clock. John became conscious of a certain feeling of curiosity, which in a sense Sophy shared.
"Your brother seems to me like a man with a purpose," she said, as they stood in the entrance-hall on their way out of the restaurant. "Like a prophet with a mission, perhaps I should say."
John nodded. In the little passage where they stood, he and Stephen seemed to dwarf the passers-by. The men, in their evening clothes and pallid faces, seemed suddenly insignificant, and the women like dolls.
"For the last time, Stephen," John said, "won't you come to a music-hall with us?"
"I have made my plans for the evening, thank you," Stephen replied, holding out his hand. "Good night!"
He left them standing there and walked off down the Strand. John, looking after him, frowned. He was conscious of a certain foreboding.