A gloomy young man strode down Great Portland Street an hour later, and, losing his way more than once, because he was too much annoyed to speak to policemen, found himself at last in Holborn and eventually in Fetter Lane. On the two middle-aged ladies in the shop saying that Mr. Myddleton West was not in, and had indeed removed, Robert, muttering that this was just like his luck, turned away with a decision to return to Grays some two hours earlier than he had intended. On board the Westmouth one was at any rate free from illogical young women; free also from the irritating risk of taking wrong turnings. A swift hysterical shower of rain started.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said gruffly.
“My fault,” remarked the man with whom he had come in collision. “I ought not to hold my open umbrella in front of me.”
“Mr. West, I believe, sir.”
“Young Hoxton!”
“That’s me, sir.”
“You look quite a man,” said Myddleton West genially. “Come back to my office, and talk.”
“You look ten years younger, sir, than when I see you last.”
“I am ten years younger,” said West. “On second thoughts we might eat. Do you feel like a good square meal?”
“I’m off me feed just for the present. Had rather a whack in the eye this afternoon.”