This was on Monday.
But on Wednesday he wrote a telegram to Bonamy, telling him to come at once.

And then he crumpled it in his hand and threw it in the gutter.
"For one thing he wouldn't come," he thought.

"And then I daresay this sort of thing wears off." "This sort of thing" being that uneasy, painful feeling, something like selfishness--one wishes almost that the thing would stop--it is getting more and more beyond what is possible--"If it goes on much longer I shan't be able to cope with it--but if some one else were seeing it at the same time--Bonamy is stuffed in his room in Lincoln's Inn--oh, I say, damn it all, I say,"-- the sight of Hymettus, Pentelicus, Lycabettus on one side, and the sea on the other, as one stands in the Parthenon at sunset, the sky pink feathered, the plain all colours, the marble tawny in one's eyes, is thus oppressive.

Luckily Jacob had little sense of personal association; he seldom thought of Plato or Socrates in the flesh; on the other hand his feeling for architecture was very strong; he preferred statues to pictures; and he was beginning to think a great deal about the problems of civilization, which were solved, of course, so very remarkably by the ancient Greeks, though their solution is no help to us.

Then the hook gave a great tug in his side as he lay in bed on Wednesday night; and he turned over with a desperate sort of tumble, remembering Sandra Wentworth Williams with whom he was in love.
Next day he climbed Pentelicus.
The day after he went up to the Acropolis.