I hung about irresolute, wondering how long an embassy of that sort would take, and whether Fyne on coming out would consent to be communicative.

I feared he would be shocked at finding me there, would consider my conduct incorrect, conceivably treat me with contempt.
I walked off a few paces.

Perhaps it would be possible to read something on Fyne's face as he came out; and, if necessary, I could always eclipse myself discreetly through the door of one of the bars.

The ground floor of the Eastern Hotel was an unabashed pub, with plate-glass fronts, a display of brass rails, and divided into many compartments each having its own entrance.
But of course all this was silly.

The marriage, the love, the affairs of Captain Anthony were none of my business.