‘I can chuck that beastly golf,’ Christopher explained in a moment, his mouth full. ‘So you can,’ said Lewes, well aware that up to now Christopher had looked forward with almost childish eagerness to his Saturdays. ‘I’ve been out already and sent a telegram to my uncle,’ said Christopher. ‘But I thought on occasions like this,’ said Lewes, ‘when the weather prevented golf, you still went down and played chess with him.’ ‘Damn chess,’ said Christopher. And in Lewes’s head once more began to revolve, <i>Poor Chris. Cumfrit. Clutches.</i> ... III Christopher had had an inspiration--sudden, as are all inspirations--the night before, after walking up and down his room for the best part of an hour: he would throw over his uncle and golf the next day, and devote the afternoon to calling on Catherine, thus getting in ahead, anyhow, of Stephen. How simple. Let his uncle be offended and disappointed as much as he liked, let him leave his thousands to the boot-boy for all he cared. He would go and see Catherine; and keep on going and seeing her, the whole afternoon if needs be, if she were out at the first shot. Whereupon, having arrived at this decision, peace enfolded him, and he went to bed and slept like a contented baby. He began calling in Hertford Street at three. She was out. The porter told him she was out when he inquired which floor she was on. ‘When will she be in?’ he asked. The porter said he couldn’t say; and Christopher disliked the porter. He went away and walked about in the park, on wet earth and with heavy drops falling on him in showers from the trees. At half-past four he was back again. Tea time. She would be in to tea, unless she had it in some one else’s house; in which case he would call again when she had had time to finish it. She was still out. ‘I’ll go up and ask for myself,’ said Christopher, who disliked the porter more than ever; and at this the porter began to dislike Christopher. ‘There’s only this one way in,’ said the porter, his manner hardening. ‘I’d be bound to have seen her.’ ‘Which floor?’ said Christopher briefly. ‘First,’ said the porter, still more briefly. The first-floor flat of a building in Hertford Street seemed removed, thought Christopher as he walked up to it on a very thick carpet, and ignored the lift, which had anyhow not been suggested by the hardened porter, from the necessity for travelling by tube. Yet she had said she always went to <i>The Immortal Hour</i> by tube. Was it possible that there existed people who enjoyed tubes? He thought it was not possible. And to emerge from the quiet mahoganied dignity of the entrance hall of these flats and proceed on one’s feet to the nearest tube instead of getting into at least a taxi, caused wonder to settle on his mind. A Rolls-Royce wouldn’t have been out of the picture, but at least there ought to be a taxi.