He considered this proposition deeply for a moment.
"That's all very well," said he, "but where am I to go? That's the question."
"You had better go home."
This seemed slightly to irritate him.
"I'm not going home—this time of night—not likely." He began to descend the steps as if to get away from admonition. "Not me; you can go home yourself."
Off he went.
He walked three times round Berkeley Square. He met a constable, enquired where that street ended and when, found sympathy in return for half-crowns, and was mothered into a straighter street.
Half-way down the straighter street he remembered he hadn't shown the sympathetic constable his door-knocker, but the policeman, fortunately, had passed out of sight.
Then he stood for awhile remembering Cerise. Her vision had suddenly appeared before him; it threw him into deep melancholy—profound melancholy. He went on till the lights and noise of Piccadilly restored him. Then, further on, he entered a flaming doorway through which came the music of a band.