ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. "I'm my own master now, and I'll do as I please. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. "Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to.
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