The regular cohort is beginning to arrive when I come down to the common room. I'm glad it isn't crowded yet. Even these scattered people are somewhat intimidating following my last few days of near isolation.

Not being choosy in my choice of seats, I ensconce myself at the first available table close to the stairs. It's large enough that I may end up in the company of strangers, but that too is not without some pleasure. This village has stories to tell and part of my purpose for being here is to find them. In the meantime, I have a copy of The Illustrated London News to provide my entertainment and am content in the knowledge that within a few minutes it will be accompanied by a decent dinner and port.

While waiting I look over the news from America, my home for some years, and discover that Cornelius Vanderbuilt II is at death's door -- possibly by now even presenting his calling card to St. Peter since the paper is more than a week old. An odd man, Cornelius, given to great acts of philanthropy, yet disinheriting his son for marrying without approval. Regardless of the discrepancies in his character, however, his death will be marked with no little mourning by the Americans.

More disturbing from a personal point of view is Chamberlain's recent Ultimatum demanding full equality for British citizens in Transvaal. War in Africa looks inevitable, and I fear that should it come about, Doyle's involvement will be just as inevitable. He and I disagree on what constitutes scientific evidence of psychical events, but his heart is as big as all of England, and his loyalty to the Empire could well see him knighted some day -- providing he lives long enough.

My meal arrives, served by the charming serving girl. I begin my meal, glancing up occasionally to study new arrivals. We'll see how the night transpires.

The port, I must say, is not one of the best, but is nevertheless most welcome.