When, therefore, in June of 1900 he went to Paris, it was but his third attempt on the centre of civilisation. This time, however, the mountain was going to Muhammad; for he felt by now more deeply civilised than Paris, and perhaps he really was. Moreover, he had a definite objective. This was no mere genuflection to a shrine of taste and immorality, but the prosecution of his own legitimate affairs. He went, indeed, because things were getting past a joke. The watch went on and on, and⁠—nothing⁠—nothing! Jolyon had never returned to Paris, and no one else was “suspect!” Busy with new and very confidential matters, Soames was realising more than ever how essential reputation is to a solicitor. But at night and in his leisure moments he was ravaged by the thought that time was always flying and money flowing in, and his own future as much “in irons” as ever. Since Mafeking night he had become aware that a “young fool of a doctor” was hanging round Annette. Twice he had come across him⁠—a cheerful young fool, not more than thirty.