‘I can chuck that beastly golf,’ Christopher explained in a moment, his mouth full.
‘So you can,’ said Lewes, well aware that up to now Christopher had looked forward with almost childish eagerness to his Saturdays.
‘I’ve been out already and sent a telegram to my uncle,’ said Christopher.
‘But I thought on occasions like this,’ said Lewes, ‘when the weather prevented golf, you still went down and played chess with him.’
‘Damn chess,’ said Christopher.
And in Lewes’s head once more began to revolve, Poor Chris. Cumfrit. Clutches. ...
III
Christopher had had an inspiration—sudden, as are all inspirations—the night before, after walking up and down his room for the best part of an hour: he would throw over his uncle and golf the next day, and devote the afternoon to calling on Catherine, thus getting in ahead, anyhow, of Stephen. How simple. Let his uncle be offended and disappointed as much as he liked, let him leave his thousands to the boot-boy for all he cared. He would go and see Catherine; and keep on going and seeing her, the whole afternoon if needs be, if she were out at the first shot. Whereupon, having arrived at this decision, peace enfolded him, and he went to bed and slept like a contented baby.
He began calling in Hertford Street at three.
She was out. The porter told him she was out when he inquired which floor she was on.