‘My name? Um. By-the-bye, what is my name?’ the young man asked himself in some perplexity. Then his face brightened, and he said impressively: ‘My name is Mr Golightly.’
‘Yes, sir—the Reverend Mr Golightly.’
‘No, sir’—with severity—‘not the Reverend Mr Golightly. Plain Mr Golightly—of London.’
‘Yes, sir. Plain Mr Golightly. I’ll be sure not to forget. Back in five minutes, sir.’ Mr Golightly went and sat down in the welcome shade of the elm.
‘I’m fairly in for it now,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve passed the Rubicon, and there’s no going back. If they are not here already, they will be sure to arrive by the next train. Will Bella recognise me in this rig-out, I wonder? Upon my word, I don’t think she will.’
Presently the porter came back. ‘No ladies stopping here by the name you spoke of, sir,’ said the man.
‘At what hour is the table-d’hôte?’
‘At seven o’clock, sir.—Got you a very nice bedroom, sir—splendid view across the lake. No. 65, sir.’
‘When is the next train due in from London?’
‘One about due in now, sir. The drive from the station takes about twenty minutes. Thank ye, sir.’