With his next glass of brandy he was all for going back to his flat. Not
go back? Indeed, he would go back! They should very soon see whether he
was to be turned out of his place like that! He began to wonder why he
was doing the rather unusual thing he was doing at that moment, unusual
for him--sitting hatless, drinking brandy, in a public-house. Suppose he
were to tell the white-haired landlady all about it--to tell her that a
caller had scratched her hand on a nail, had later had the bad luck to
put her foot through a rotten stair, and that he himself, in an old house
full of squeaks and creaks and whispers, had heard a minute noise and had
bolted from it in fright--what would she think of him? That he was mad,
of course.... Pshaw! The real truth of the matter was that he hadn't been
doing enough work to occupy him. He had been dreaming his days away,
filling his head with a lot of moonshine about a new _Romilly_ (as if the
old one was not good enough), and now he was surprised that the devil
should enter an empty head!

Yes, he would go back. He would take a walk in the air first--he hadn't
walked enough lately--and then he would take himself in hand, settle
the hash of that sixteenth chapter of _Romilly_ (fancy, he had actually
been fool enough to think of destroying fifteen chapters!) and
thenceforward he would remember that he had obligations to his fellow-men
and work to do in the world. There was the matter in a nutshell.

He finished his brandy and went out.

He had walked for some time before any other bearing of the matter than
that on himself occurred to him. At first, the fresh air had increased
the heady effect of the brandy he had drunk; but afterwards his mind grew
clearer than it had been since morning. And the clearer it grew, the less
final did his boastful self-assurances become, and the firmer his