After lunch, clad in the garb of respectability, he went up by a quick train.
His evening suit he had previously despatched to Alexander's abode, where he was to dine and dress.
At four o'clock he was in Bryanston Square, tremulous but sanguine, a different man from him who had sneaked about here under the umbrella.
He knocked.

The servant civilly informed him that Miss Derwent was not at home, asked his name, and bowed him away.
It was a shock.

This possibility had not entered his mind, so engrossed was he in forecasting, in dramatising, the details of the interview.
Looking like one who has received some dreadful news, he turned slowly from the door and walked away with head down.

Probably no event in all his life had given him such a sense of desolating frustration.

At once the sky was overcast, the ways were woebegone; he shrank within his new garments, and endured once more the feeling of personal paltriness.
Though the time before him was so long, he had no choice but to go at once to Theobald's Road, where at all events friendly faces would greet him.