Peter went back to the sitting-room, and threw himself into a chair.  Then he had an idea, got up, went to the telephone, ordered a bottle of whisky to be sent up, and a siphon, and went back to his seat.  Presently he was pouring himself out a drink and smoking a cigarette on his own (temporary) hearth-rug.  The little incident increased his satisfaction.  He was reassuring himself.  Here he was really safe and remote and master, with a thousand servants and a huge palace at his beck and call, and all for a few pounds!  It was absurd, but he thought to himself that he was feeling civilised for the first time, perhaps.

He looked round, and considered Julie.  What would she want?  Flowers to begin with, heaps of them; she liked violets for one thing, and by hook or by crook he would get a little wattle or mimosa to remind her of Africa.  Then chocolates and cigarettes, both must never be lacking, and a few books—­no, not books, magazines; and he would have some wine sent up.  What else?  Biscuits; after the theatre they might be jolly.  Ah, the theatre! he must book seats.  Well, a box would be better; they did not want to run too great a risk of being seen.  Donovan was quite possibly in town, to say nothing of—­older friends.  Possibly, considering the run on the theatres, he had better book up fairly completely for the days they had together.  But what would she like?  Julie would never want to go if she did not spontaneously fancy a play.  It was a portentous question, and he considered it long.  Finally he decided on half-and-half measures, leaving some time free....  Time! how did it go?  By Jove! he ought to make a move.  Luncheon first; his last meal alone for some time; then order the things; and Victoria at 5.30.  He poured himself another short drink and went out.

He lunched in a big public grill-room, and chatted with a naval officer at his table who was engaged in mine-sweeping with a steam-tramp.  The latter was not vastly enthusiastic over things, but was chiefly depressed because he had to report at a naval base that night, and his short London leave was all but run out.

“Tell you what,” he said, “I’ve seen a good many cities one way and another, from San Francisco to Singapore, and I know Paris and Brussels and Berlin, but you can take my word for it, there’s no better place for ten days’ leave than this same old blessed London.  You can have some spree out East if you want it, but you can get much the same, if not better, here.  If a fellow wants a bit of a skirt, he can get as good a pick in London as anywhere.  If you want a good show, there isn’t another spot in the universe that can beat it, whatever it is you feel like.  If you want to slip out of sight for a bit, give me a big hotel like this in London.  They don’t damn-well worry about identification papers much here—­too little, p’raps, these days.  Did you hear of those German submarine officers who lived in an hotel in Southampton?”