I was nearly wasting a couple of marks on a cab to get back to the hotel. I was afraid of the hotel by now; the bill lowed and the head porter and the rich old frumps were too much for me, and if I'd had anywhere else to go in all the world, I'd have sacrificed my luggage for the sake of never seeing the place again. It was it place for rich people, for people who haven't got to care about money, who could be robbed of a dozen handbags and yet pay their bills and take a first-class ticket home. But it wasn't a place for me, with sixteen marks between me and the gutter.
"The porter had a telegram for me as I went in. It was the answer from Conyers. I took it across the hall to read, so that people shouldn't see my face. Oh, he's a brute! He wasted a dozen francs to have a sneer at me all the war from Paris to Berlin. 'Shouldn't ask money from a married man,' was what he had written--the cad! It made me so angry, for the moment, that I forgot to feel desperate. But none of the others answered at all.