In the fashionable streets that bounded
his own horizon, if a man paused in his walk to work out an
idea he instantly drew a crowd of inquisitive or contemptuous
eyes; here, if a man halted for half an hour it was nobody's
business but his own.
Enjoying this thought, he wandered on for close upon an hour,
moving from one street to another with steps that were
listless or rapid, as inclination prompted; then, still acting
with vagrant aimlessness, he stopped in his wanderings and
entered a small eating-house.
The place was low-ceiled and dirty, the air hot and steaming
with the smell of food, but Chilcote passed through the door
and moved to one of the tables with no expression of disgust,
and with far less furtive watchfulness than he used in his own
house. By a curious mental twist he felt greater freedom,
larger opportunities in drab surroundings such as these than
in the broad issues and weighty responsibilities of his own
life. Choosing a corner seat, he called for coffee; and
there, protected by shadow and wrapped in cigarette smoke, he
set about imagining himself some vagrant unit who had slipped
his moorings and was blissfully adrift.
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