‘Some man and wife--a very handsome couple--were the first to appear. They nodded and said “good morning” when they noticed me on their way to the hot dishes. I rose--uncomfortably, guiltily--and sat down again. I rose again when the wife drifted to my table, followed by the husband with two steaming plates. She asked me if it wasn’t a heavenly morning, and I replied with nervous enthusiasm that it was. She then ate kedgeree in silence. “You just finishing, what?” the husband asked, looking at my plate. “Oh, no--no--only just beginning,” I assured him, and helped myself to butter. He then ate kedgeree in silence. He looked like some splendid bull, and she like some splendid cow, grazing. I envied them their eupeptic calm. I surmised that ten thousand Braxtons would not have prevented THEM from sleeping soundly by night and grazing steadily by day. Perhaps their stolidity infected me a little. Or perhaps what braced me was the great quantity of strong tea that I consumed. Anyhow I had begun to feel that if Braxton came in now I shouldn’t blench nor falter. ‘Well, I wasn’t put to the test. Plenty of people drifted in, but Braxton wasn’t one of them. Lady Rodfitten--no, she didn’t drift, she marched, in; and presently, at an adjacent table, she was drawing a comparison, in clarion tones, between Jean and Edouard de Reszke. It seemed to me that her own voice had much in common with Edouard’s. Even more was it akin to a military band. I found myself beating time to it with my foot. Decidedly, my spirits had risen. I was in a mood to face and outface anything. When I rose from the table and made my way to the door, I walked with something of a swing--to the tune of Lady Rodfitten. ‘My buoyancy didn’t last long, though. There was no swing in my walk when, a little later, I passed out on to the spectacular terrace. I had seen my enemy again, and had beaten a furious retreat. No doubt I should see him yet again soon--here, perhaps, on this terrace. Two of the guests were bicycling slowly up and down the long paven expanse, both of them smiling with pride in the new delicious form of locomotion. There was a great array of bicycles propped neatly along the balustrade. I recognised my own among them. I wondered whether Braxton had projected from Clifford’s Inn an image of his own bicycle. He may have done so; but I’ve no evidence that he did. I myself was bicycling when next I saw him; but he, I remember, was on foot.