Gobion went to the Grosvenor Hotel and dressed for dinner. Never before had he been so free, so unrestrained. A most pleasurable feeling of excitement possessed him.
He knew he could venture where another man would fail; he had fascination, resource—he was utterly unscrupulous; it was almost pleasingly dramatic.
He stood in the hall after dinner and lit a cigarette, watching the crowd of well-dressed people on the lounges round the wall, enjoying their after-dinner coffee.
The excellent dinner he had eaten still wanted the final climax of coffee, and sitting down in an armchair he ordered some.
The dreamy content of a well-fed, but not over-fed, man beamed from him. What should he do?—a music-hall perhaps—he could almost have laughed aloud in pure amusement and delight at his freedom.
A man sitting near asked him for a match, and they began to talk in the idle desultory way of two chance acquaintances, making remarks about the people sitting round.
A big, yellow-haired girl was talking and laughing in loud tones on the other side of the room, clattering her fan with, it seemed to Gobion, quite unnecessary noise.
"Who is that person?" he said.
"Which?"
"The girl with the bun, by the potted palm."