But with a start, he realizes there isn’t really anything to laugh about. It will be two weeks before his ship leaves to return to America. So here he is, held prisoner by London. As long as he was able to picture the city with its publishers’ lairs where he ought to be snooping around; as long as there was the possibility of getting involved in discussion, in argument; as long as it should have been leading to something worthwhile, London was still bearable. But now—dark, soulless, noisy—he can’t stand it. What kind of a trap has he fallen into? With crystal clarity he understands that if he isn’t careful, some crazy misfortune is going to befall him. In the final analysis, it was precisely in the wake of this kind of a Londonesque bout of ennui that a gigantic brawl broke out in Lima. And it was drunken bingeing on this kind of ginger-colored fog that led to the wild masquerade of Shanghai.

The room he’s in smells of cigars. The odor of old punch lingers in the tablecloth, and the brown leather wainscoting reeks of men. He feels a dreadful apprehension. He knows that in this place, at any given moment, the irresistible desire to display his masculinity, sailor-style, can grab hold of him. If he has nothing to do but listen to his own thoughts, he’ll never be able to stay in step for very long with all these country squires he’s meeting on the stairs and in the corridors. The hotel he’s landed in is full of rural gentry who’ve come to London to follow at close quarters the debate in the Commons over Palmerston’s policy concerning wheat and potatoes. In Herman’s view, anyone who deserves to be called a man has better things to do than to conspire to line his pocketbook.

Down below, in the kitchens, they’re shifting copper platters around. This evening, they’ll use them to serve up stuffed turkeys, yet again. He’ll be able to bear it for one more night, two at the very most. But a fortnight . . . no, surely not. He already wants to smoke in the parlor and chat in the smoking room, and he’s chuckling inside thinking about what he might be capable of doing in the dining room. He really wants to tell them that when it comes to pounds sterling, he’d just as soon shove them up . . .well, you know where.

If he does remain here, there’s no question about what he’s going to do. It’s as clear as day: He’s going to buy himself a big, white top hat. He’s seen some outlandish styles in the shopwindows, tube-shaped headgear fit for the residents of Havana, the kinds of prodigious hats you need only place on your head for everyone you run into to feel offended, even in broad daylight, even in Havana. So all right, here’s what he’s going to do: He’s going to buy himself one of these hats. And put it on. And parade it around here, in the midst of the crowd, in the thick of the pea-soup fog. He’ll bring it into the dining room and keep it on his head, like a protest in support of a free America. What the hell! But . . . no.