What a glorious day it was; even Fleet Street had a touch of youth about it.
A flower-woman and her wares caught his eye; he bought a bunch of late violets and, with his hat tilted back, dived in his trousers' pocket and produced a handful of silver. He gave her a shilling and, without asking for change, walked on, the violets in his buttonhole.
He was making west like a homing pigeon. He walked like a man in a hurry but with no purpose, his glance skimmed things and seemed to rest only on things coloured or pleasant to look on, his eyes showed no speculation. He seemed like a person with no more past than a dreamer. The present seemed to him everything—just as it is to the dreamer.
In the Strand he stopped here and there to glance at the contents of shops; neckties attracted him. Then Fuller's drew him in by its colour. He had a vanilla-and-strawberry ice and chatted to the girls, who did not receive his advances, however, with much favour.
Then he came to Romanos'; it attracted him, and he went in. Gilded youths were drinking at the bar, and a cocktail being mixed by the bar-tender fascinated Simon by its colour; he had one like it, chatted to the man, paid, and walked out.
It was now eleven.
Still walking gaily and lightly, as one walks in a happy dream, he reached the Charing Cross Hotel, asked the porter to show him the rooms he had reserved, and enquired if his luggage had come.
The luggage had come and was deposited in the bedroom of the suite: two large brand-new portmanteaux and a hat-box, also a band-box from Lincoln Bennett's.
The portmanteaux and hat-box were locked, but in the band-box were the keys, gummed up in an envelope; there was also a straw hat in the band-box—a boater.
The porter, having unstrapped the portmanteaux, departed with a tip, and our gentleman began to unpack swiftly and with the eagerness of a child going to a party.