He wills not that I leave him. He desires that I come to dinner.
I am grave. I think upon Lady Wollobie—shorn of chaprassies—at the Clob. Not in Bayswater.
I accept. He will bore me affreusely, but ... I have taken his seat.
He descends from the tumbril of his humiliation, and the street hawker rolls a barrow up his waistcoat.
Then intervenes the fog—dense, impenetrable, hopeless, without end.
It is because of the fog that there is a drop upon the end of my nose so chiselled.
Gentlemen the Governors, the Lieutenant-Governors and the Commissaires, behold the doom prepared.
I am descended to the gates of your Life in Death. Which is Brompton or Bayswater.
You do not believe? You will try the constituencies when you return; is it not so?
You will fail. As others failed.