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seeing nothing but a blotchy yellow reflection of himself, and the yellow compartment in which he did his thinking.

Chapter Five
    The wheels and track clicked out the familiar and unmistakable rhythm – the sly, gentle, suggestive rhythm, unlike any of its others, of a train entering a major London terminus, and he was filled with unease and foreboding as he always was by this sound. Thought and warmth must give place to action in cold streets – reality, buses, tubes, booking-offices, life again, electric-lit London, endless terrors.
    Oh dear! – here we were – here was the platform under the huge roof – hollow, hellish echoing noises as in a swimming-bath, and the porters lined up for the attack – no getting out of it now! Foreboding gave place almost to panic. Liverpool Street. Where was he going? What was his plan of campaign? He realized he had made none. He was going along to Netta’s of course, but would she be there? She had said she would, but only in an off-hand way. She never said she’d be anywhere save in an off-hand way. Boxing Night! Of course, she wouldn’t bethere! She would go out somewhere on Boxing Night, Peter would take her out! She’d be out dancing – people danced on Boxing Night – out with Peter doing God knows what. What was he to do if he found she was gone? This was terrible. He must get over there at once, and find out the worst.
    He let the other people get out of the compartment and then rose and stretched his arms up to put The Bar 20 Rides Again back into his suitcase on the rack. ‘Porter, sir?’ – ‘No, thanks. I can manage, thanks.’ The man went off in a hurt silence. Unpleasant. He stepped on to the platform.
    What now? It was half past six. Underground? Central London, and then change at Nothing Hill? Unthinkable! In his present state of suspense he couldn’t bear it. It must be a taxi. That was what the ten pounds was for, wasn’t it? But where to? Straight to Netta’s, or back to his hotel first, to leave his bag? Yes, he’d better go to his hotel first. He could have a wash there, and then stroll round to Netta’s, fairly composed and clean.
    He walked out of the station, and got a floating taxi outside the Great Eastern Hotel. ‘I want to go to Earl’s Court. Do you know Fauconberg Square?’ ‘ Yessir! ’ – ‘Well, it’s the Fauconberg Hotel – you’ll find it.’ – ‘ Yessir – rightsir! ’ The man bent down his meter with cheerful briskness, and by his delighted, amiable demeanour, cancelled the unpleasantness of the hurt porter on the platform. The toilers were on his side again.
    The City was mauve, misty, empty, cold. Boxing Day. In less than a minute, it seemed, they were jogging and rattling past the Bank. They wouldn’t be long at this rate. The lights were going nicely with them to – shining out with brilliant friendliness like bottles in a chemist’s shop.
    He was an awful fool to be taking a taxi like this. It was all very well to say he had that ten pounds, but he wouldn’t have it if he went on like this. This would be six bob at least – probably seven with the tip. Nearly half of one of your ten pounds gone already!
    Why had he taken a taxi! Why did he get into ‘states’ like this? He had suddenly got into a state of panic because he had thought Netta might not be in her flat, and he couldn’t wait to find out, couldn’t stand a train with a change. But what did itmatter if Netta wasn’t in her flat? There was tomorrow, there was the day after, there was all next year. Why should he want to see Netta tonight? He wasn’t sure that he did want to see her: he would almost certainly go to bed happier if he didn’t. But he had got into a state and was rushing to her in a taxi. He was an awful fool.
    How empty and bleak the streets were, and how he loathed this shut, shuttered, super-Sunday – the Christmas Holiday. He supposed it was all right for people who had to work all the year: but it made him feel terrible.