In Oxford Street he stopped at a shop window and inspected ladies' blouses—that was his condition of mind; jewellers' windows held him, not by the excellence of their goods, but by the necessity to turn his back to the crowd and think—think—think.
His mind was in a turmoil, and he could no more control his thoughts than he could have controlled the traffic; the wares of the merchants exposed to view seemed to do the thinking. Gold alberts only held his eye to explain that his lands in Hertfordshire flung on the market in the present state of agriculture would not fetch a tithe of their worth, but that his green-seal sherry and all the treasures of his cellar would bring half the West End to their sale—Old Pettigrew's cellar.
Other things in other shops spoke to him in a like manner, and then he found himself at Oxford Circus with the sudden consciousness that this was not fighting Lethmann's disease by the exercise of will. His will had, in fact, been in abeyance, his imagination master of him.
But a refuge in the middle of Oxford Circus was not exactly the place for the re-equipment of will-power; the effort nearly cost him his life from a motor-lorry as he crossed. Then, when he had reached the other side and could resume work free of danger, he found that he had apparently no will to re-equip.
He found himself repeating over and over the words, "I will not be him—I will not be him." That seemed all right for a moment, and he would have satisfied himself that his will-power was working splendidly, had not a sudden cold doubt sprung up in his heart as to whether the proper formula ought not to be, "He will not be me."
Ah! that was the crux of the business. It was quite easy to determine, "I will not be him," but when it came to the declaration, "He will not be me," Simon found that he had no will-power in the matter. It was quite easy to determine that he would not do foolish things, impossible to determine that another should not do them.
Then it came to his mind like a flash that the other one was not a personality so much as a combination of foolish actions, old desires, and alien motives let loose on the world without governance.
He turned mechanically into Verreys' and had a chop. At Simpson's in the Strand he always had a chop or a cut from the saddle, or a cut from the sirloin—like the razors, the daily menus following one another in rotation. This was a chop day, just as it was a "Tuesday" day, and habit prevented him from forgetting the fact. The chop and a half-bottle of St. Estéphe made him feel a stronger man. He suddenly became cheerful and valiant.
"If worst comes to worst," said he to himself, "I can put myself under restraint; nobody need know. Yes, begad! I have always that. I can put myself under surveillance. Why, dash it! I can tie up my money so that I can't touch it; it's quite easy."
The chop and St. Estéphe, hauling him out of the slough of despond, told him this. It was a sure way of escape from losing his money. He had furiously rejected the idea at Oppenshaw's, but at Oppenshaw's his Property had not had time to talk fully to him, but in that awful journey from Harley Street to Verreys' he had walked arm-in-arm with his Property chattering on one side and dumb Bankruptcy on the other.