For Syme thirsted first and last to get clear of the whole poisonous atmosphere, if only for an hour.

Then he could collect his thoughts, formulate his policy, and decide finally whether he should or should not keep faith with Gregory.
He strolled away through the dancing snow, turned up two or three streets, down through two or three others, and entered a small Soho restaurant for lunch.

He partook reflectively of four small and quaint courses, drank half a bottle of red wine, and ended up over black coffee and a black cigar, still thinking.

He had taken his seat in the upper room of the restaurant, which was full of the chink of knives and the chatter of foreigners.

He remembered that in old days he had imagined that all these harmless and kindly aliens were anarchists.