Enjoying this thought, he wandered on for close upon an hour,
moving from one street to another with steps that were
listless or rapid, as inclination prompted; then, still acting
with vagrant aimlessness, he stopped in his wanderings and
entered a small eating-house.

The place was low-ceiled and dirty, the air hot and steaming
with the smell of food, but Chilcote passed through the door
and moved to one of the tables with no expression of disgust,
and with far less furtive watchfulness than he used in his own
house. By a curious mental twist he felt greater freedom,
larger opportunities in drab surroundings such as these than
in the broad issues and weighty responsibilities of his own
life. Choosing a corner seat, he called for coffee; and
there, protected by shadow and wrapped in cigarette smoke, he
set about imagining himself some vagrant unit who had slipped
his moorings and was blissfully adrift.

The imagination was pleasant while it lasted, but with him
nothing was permanent. Of late the greater part of his
sufferings had been comprised in the irritable fickleness of
all his aims--the distaste for and impossibility of sustained
effort in any direction. He had barely lighted a second
cigarette when the old restlessness fell upon him; he stirred
nervously in his seat, and the cigarette was scarcely burned
out when he rose, paid his small bill, and left the shop.

Outside on the pavement he halted, pulled out his watch, and
saw that two hours stretched in front before any appointment