_Ibex_ brought me from Guernsey to Southampton. It was a sleepy,
hot, and sticky wreck that answered to the name of James Orlebar
Cloyster that morning; but I had my first youth and forty pounds, so
that soap and water, followed by coffee and an omelette, soon restored
me.

The journey to Waterloo gave me opportunity for tobacco and reflection.

What chiefly exercised me, I remember, was the problem whether it was
possible to be a Bohemian, and at the same time to be in love. Bohemia
I looked on as a region where one became inevitably entangled with
women of unquestionable charm, but doubtful morality. There were supper
parties.... Festive gatherings in the old studio.... Babette....
Lucille.... The artists' ball.... Were these things possible for a
man with an honest, earnest, whole-hearted affection?

The problem engaged me tensely till my ticket was collected at
Vauxhall. Just there the solution came. I would be a Bohemian, but a
misogynist. People would say, "Dear old Jimmy Cloyster. How he hates
women!" It would add to my character a pleasant touch of dignity and
reserve which would rather accentuate my otherwise irresponsible way of
living.

Little did the good Bohemians of the metropolis know how keen a recruit
the boat train was bringing to them.

* * * * *

As a _pied-a-terre_ I selected a cheap and dingy hotel in York
Street, and from this base I determined to locate my proper sphere.