But the flights seemed endless. He passed the ball-room door and joined in the steady stream pouring down to supper.
The thought stung him suddenly as he drew on his coat and tipped the man who handed him his hat.
"Hardly hospitable!"
But his smile twisted. He refused, as he passed out, the appeal of loitering taxis, and with long angry strides he forged ahead down the empty pavements in a bee line for his club.
The night was still young. The stars above shone down through the glow that London spreads upon the domed sky: orange-colored smoke, incense offered up from the fires of her pleasure and burnt sacrifice.
In Piccadilly a woman accosted him, with painted lips that brought to mind Fantine.
He hurried on, restless, with a feeling in his heart that all was crooked in this maddening world. Love bartered—love profaned ... His eyes still filled with Cydonia's light shrank from that ghastly pageant of lust which decorous London openly allows.
In the hall of his club a page ran after him, a pile of letters outstretched on a tray.
He took them absently and turned into the smoking-room, with a breath of relief at finding it empty, save for a solitary form, half-buried in a chair, feet outstretched toward the fire.
"Hullo!—Bethune." The man reading turned. "Luck, finding you here."