how to occupy his last day in England. He felt like an excursionist who has come south to see the final of the football cup, and finds himself landed in London at three a.m., whereas the match is due to start at three-thirty p.m.
At half-past six he was back at his chambers. For half an hour he glanced over the newspapers he had brought in with him, and then proceeded leisurely to dress. By a quarter to eight he was ready. Picking up the letters he had writen, his gloves and stick, he walked down the stairs rather than ring for the lift. Giving the porter the letters and half-a-crown, he told him to have them stamped and posted. He then strolled slowly along Jermyn Street in the direction of the Ritz-Carlton, where he had booked a table for dinner.
Sometimes at the thought of Lola a passion of protest would surge up in him; but he had by now reasoned himself to a state of almost ice-cold logic. That morning he had settled matters once and for all as far as his future was concerned. The Challices were noted for their grim determination. His great-uncle, the Admiral, had been known as "Bulldog Challice," and in the Peninsular war old Sir Gilbert Challice had fought one of the most remarkable and tenacious rearguard actions in history, an action that had drawn grudging praise from Napoleon himself.
Yes; he had made up his mind, and he was going to see things through; at least, the old brigade of
