He was, indeed, back in London at that hour, but his state of mind tempted him to shirk squalid duty; instead of turning toward Fulham Road, he took his way into the Strand, and there loitered in the evening sunshine, self-reproachful, yet enjoying the unwonted liberty.

It was dinner-time; restaurants exhaled their pungent odours, and Will felt sharpening appetite.

For the first time since his catastrophe, he granted himself the dinner of a well-to-do man, and, as would naturally befall in such a case, made his indulgence large.
Several days passed and brought no letter from any one.

But at midnight on Saturday, there lay awaiting him a letter addressed in Sherwood's well-known hand.

Godfrey began by excusing himself for his delay in replying; he had had rather a nasty attack of illness, and was only now able to hold his pen.