It was ten o'clock as I stood reflecting on a doorstep--on Johnson's doorstep.

I must see somebody, must talk to somebody, before I went to bed in the cheerless room at the club.

It was true I might find a political stalwart in the smoking-room--but that was a last resort, a desperate and ignominious _pis aller_.
There was Fox, I should find him at the office.

But it needed a change of tone before I could contemplate with equanimity the meeting of that individual.

I had been preparing myself to confront all the ethically excellent young men and Fox was, ethically speaking, far from excellent, middle-aged, rubicund, leery--a free lance of genius.