Then, weary, disgusted, he started on his eastward walk.

Omnibuses, of course, there were none.

The chance of a train at some underground station seemed too doubtful to think about; in any case he had no more money to waste.
On he plodded, heavily, angrily--Cromwell Road, Brompton Road, at last Piccadilly, and so into familiar districts, though he had never walked here so late at night.

Of course there would be nasty questions to-morrow; Theodore would look grave, and Ada would be virtuously sour, and his mother--but perhaps they would not worry her by disclosing such things.

Unaccustomed to express himself with violence, Christopher at about half-past twelve found some relief in a timid phrase or two of swearing.
When he reached Shaftesbury Avenue he was dog-tired.