He went at once to Kenilworth Mansions¹, but he went against his will. And the reason of his disinclination was that he scarcely desired to encounter Geraldine. It was an ordeal² for him to encounter Geraldine. The events which had led to this surprising condition of affairs were as follows:  
Henry was one of those men—and there exist, perhaps, more of them than may be imagined—who are capable of plunging³ off the roof of a house, and then reconsidering the enterprise and turning back. With Henry it was never too late for discretion⁴. He would stop and think at the most extraordinary moments. Thirty-six hours after the roseate evening at the Louvre and the Alhambra, just when he ought to have been laying a scheme for meeting Geraldine at once by sheer accident, Henry was coldly remarking to himself: 'Let me see exactly where I am. Let me survey the position.' He liked Geraldine, but now it was with a sober liking⁵, a liking which is not too excited to listen to Reason. And Reason said, after the position had been duly surveyed: 'I have nothing against this charming lady, and much in her favour. Nevertheless, there need be no hurry.' Geraldine wrote to thank Henry for the most enjoyable evening she had ever spent in her life, and Henry found the letter too effusive⁶. When they next saw each other, Henry meant to keep strictly⁷ private the advice which he had accepted from Reason; but Geraldine knew all about it within the first ten seconds, and Henry knew that she knew. Politeness reigned⁸, and the situation was felt to be difficult. Geraldine intended to be sisterly, but succeeded only in being resentful, and thus precipitated⁹ too soon the second stage of the entanglement¹⁰, the stage in which a man, after seeing everything in a woman, sees nothing in her; this second stage is usually of the briefest, but circumstances may render it permanent. Then Geraldine wrote again, and asked Henry to tea at the flat in Chenies Street on a Saturday afternoon. Henry went, and found the flat closed. He expected to receive a note of bewitching, cajoling, feminine apology, but he did not receive it. They met again, always at Kenilworth Mansions, and in an interview full of pain at the start and full of insincerity at the finish Henry learnt that Geraldine's invitation had been for Sunday, and not Saturday, that various people of much importance in her eyes had been asked to meet him, and that the company was deeply disappointed and the hostess humiliated¹¹. Henry was certain that she had written Saturday. Geraldine was certain that he had misread the day. He said nothing about confronting her with the letter itself, but he determined¹², in his masculine way, to do so. She gracefully¹³ pretended that the incident was closed, and amicably¹⁴ closed, but the silly little thing had got into her head the wild, inexcusable idea that Henry had stayed away from her 'at home' on purpose, and Henry felt this.
 
He rushed to Dawes Road to find the letter, but the letter was undiscoverable; with thespiteful waywardness which often characterizes such letters, it had disappeared. So Henry thought it would be as well to leave the incident alone. Their cheery politeness to each other when they chanced to meet was affecting to witness. As for Henry, he had always suspected in Geraldine the existence of some element, some quality, some factor, which was beyond his comprehension, and now his suspicions were confirmed.
 
He fell into a habit of saying, in his inmost heart: 'Women!'
 
This meant that he had learnt all that was knowable about them, and that they were all alike, and that—the third division of the meaning was somewhat vague.
 
Just as he was ascending¹⁵ with the beautiful flunkey in the Kenilworth lift, a middle-aged¹⁶ and magnificently-dressed woman hastened into the marble hall from the street, and, seeing the lift in the act of vanishing with its precious burden, gave a slight scream and then a laugh. The beautiful flunkey permitted himself a derisive¹⁷ gesture, such as one male may make to another, and sped the lift more quickly upwards¹⁸.
 
'Who's she?' Henry demanded.
 
'I don't know, sir,' said the flunkey. 'But you'll hear her ting-tinging at the bell in half a second. There!' he added in triumphant¹⁹ disgust, as the lift-bell rang impatiently. 'There's some people,' he remarked, 'as thinks a lift can go up and down at once.'
 
Geraldine with a few bright and pleasant remarks ushered²⁰ Henry directly into the presence of Mark Snyder. Her companion was not in the office.
 
'Well,' Mr. Snyder expansively and gaily²¹ welcomed him, 'come and sit down, my young friend.'
 
'Anything wrong?' Henry asked.
 
'No,' said Mark. 'But I've postponed²² publication of the Q. C. for a month.'
 
In his letters Mr. Snyder always referred to A Question of Cubits as the Q. C.
 
'What on earth for?' exclaimed Henry.
 
He was not pleased. In strict truth, no one of his innumerable admirers was more keenly anxious for the appearance of that book than Henry himself. His appetite for notoriety and boom grew by what it fed on. He expected something colossal²³, and he expected it soon.
 
'Both in England and America,' said Snyder.
 
'But why?'
 
'Serial²⁴ rights,' said Snyder impressively. 'I told you some time since I might have a surprise for you, and I've got one. I fancied I might sell the serial rights in England to Macalistairs, at my own price, but they thought the end was too sad. However, I've done business in New York with Gordon's Weekly. They'll issue the Q. C. in four instalments. It was really settled last week, but I had to arrange with Spring Onions. They've paid cash. I made 'em. How much d'you think?'
 
'I don't know,' Henry said expectantly.
 
'Guess,' Mark Snyder commanded him.
 
But Henry would not guess, and Snyder rang the bell for Geraldine.
 
'Miss Foster,' he addressed the puzzling creature in a casual tone, 'did you draw that cheque for Mr. Knight²⁵?'
 
'Yes, Mr. Snyder.'
 
'Bring it me, please.'
 
And she respectfully brought in a cheque, which Mr. Snyder signed.
 
'There!' said he, handing it to Henry. 'What do you think of that?'
 
It was a cheque for one thousand and eighty pounds. Gordon and Brothers, the greatest publishing firm of the United States, had paid six thousand dollars for the right to publish serially²⁶ A Question of Cubits, and Mark Snyder's well-earned commission on the transaction amounted to six hundred dollars.
 
'Things are looking up,' Henry stammered²⁷, feebly facetious²⁸.
 
'It's nearly a record price,' said Snyder complacently²⁹. 'But you're a sort of a record man. And wh............