The heavens remained clear, the air exhilarating, and Iglesias set
forth on his weekly pilgrimage in a serene frame of mind. George
Lovegrove's view had been reassuring.
"I know you are much more far-sighted than I am," he had said, his
honest face beaming with combined cleanliness and affection, "so I
always hesitate to set up my opinion against yours. It would be
presumptuous. Still, you do surprise me. I never had an inkling of
anything of the sort; and between ourselves--for I should never hint at
the subject before the wife, you know--it might upset her, females are
so sensitive--but between ourselves it would fairly unman me to think
there could be any unsoundness in Barking Brothers & Barking. You know
the phrase current in the city about them--'as safe as the Bank of
England'? And I have always believed that. I know I left before Mr.
Reginald had any active share in the business, and I never have cared
about American speculation. It is all beyond me. Still I cannot suppose
the senior partners would let him have too much his own way. Depend
upon it, Sir Abel keeps an eye on him. And then as to this war, of
course you have studied it all more deeply than I have the power to do;
still I cannot help thinking you distress yourself unnecessarily. As I
said to the wife when I first heard of it, it's suicidal. One can only
feel pity for such poor ignorant creatures, rushing headlong on their
ruin. Depend upon it, they will very soon come to their senses and
deplore their own rash action. A very few weeks will see the finish of
it all. I only hope there will not be much bloodshed first, for of
course they couldn't stand up against English troops for an hour, poor
things."
Encouraged by which cheerful optimism Dominic Iglesias began to think
his fears exaggerated, as he descended from an omnibus top at
Hammersmith Bridge that afternoon, crossed the river, and walked on
down the long suburban road. The sky was sharply blue. Multicoloured
leaves danced down from the trees in the villa gardens. Gaily clad
children, pursued by anxious mothers and nursemaids, ran and shouted,
the sunshine and fresh air having gone to their heads. Perched on the
brick pier of an entrance gate, a robin uplifted its voice in
piercingly sweet song. Autumn wore her fairest face, speaking of
promise rather than of decay. It was good to be alive. Even to Mr.
Iglesias' sober and chastened spirit horror of war, disgrace of
financial failure, seemed remote and inconsiderable things, morbid
delusions such as sane men brush aside scorning to give them harbourage
so much as of thought.
Poppy was mirthful, too, in her greeting of him.
"My dear man," she cried, "the house is out of windows! You find us in
the throes of a great domestic event. Cappadocia has done her duty by
posterity. She has been brought to bed, if you'll excuse my mentioning
it, of four puppies. Perfect little lambs, not a white hair among them.
And she shows true maternal feeling, does Cappadocia. Whenever you go
near her she tries to bite."
Poppy spoke very fast, holding his hand, looking him full in the face,
her singular eyes very gentle in expression, yet all alight.
"Ah! it's good to see you. My stars, but it is good to see you," she
said.
And Dominic, moved beyond his wont, stood silent for a space.
"You're not offended? Surely, at this time of the day, you're not going
to stiffen up?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"No, no, dear friend," he said; "but this greeting is a little
wonderful to me. Except my mother, years ago, nobody has ever cared
whether I came or went."
"More fools they," Poppy answered, with a fine disregard of grammar.
"But all that's over now. You know it's over. All the same I can't be
altogether sorry it was so, because it gives me my chance.--Sit down;
I'll expound to you. Let us talk.--You see, my beautiful innocent, with
most men worth knowing--I am not talking about boys running about with
the shell still on their heads and more affections to place than they
can find a market for, but men. Well then, with most all of them, when
one comes to discuss matters, one finds one's had such an awful lot of
predecessors. At best one comes in a bad third--more often a bad
three-and-twentieth--I mean nothing risky. Don't be nervous. But they
have romantic memories of half-a-dozen women. And so, though they are
no end nice and kind to one, play up and give one a good time and have
a jolly good one themselves--trust 'em to take care of that--one knows
all the while, if one knows anything, that the whole show's merely a
_réchauffé_. Visions of Clara and Gladys, and dear little Emily, and
Rosina, and Beatrice, and the lovely Lucinda--angels, every one of
them, if you haven't seen them for ten years, and wouldn't know them
again if you met them in the street--haunt the background of every
man's mind by the time he's five-and-thirty, and cut entrancing capers
against the sky-line, so that--when one comes to thrash the matter
out--one finds the actually present woman, here in the foreground,
hasn't really any look-in at all."
Poppy threw her head back against the yellowish red cushions of the
settee, her teeth showing white as she laughed.
"Boys aren't worth having. They're too crude, too callow. Moreover, it
isn't playing the game. One doesn't want to make a mess of their
futures, poor little chaps. And grown men, except as I say of the very
preëngaged sort, are not to be had. So don't you understand, most
delightful lunatic, how it comes to pass that you and your friendship
are precious to me beyond words? When you go I could cry. When you come
I could dance."
Her tone changed, becoming defiant, almost fierce.
"And it is all right," she said, "thank heaven, right,--right, clean,
and honest, and good for one's soul. Now I've done. Only we are very
happy in our own quaint way, aren't we? And we can leave it at that.
Oh, yes, we can very well leave it at that if"--she looked sideways at
Mr. Iglesias, her expression half-humorous, half-pathetic--"if only it
will stay at that and not play the mischief and scuttle off into
something quite else."
She got up quickly, with a little air of daring and bravado.
"I must move about. I must do something--there, I'll make up the fire.
No, sit still, dear man"--as Dominic prepared to rise also--"I like
doing little odd jobs with you here. It takes off the company feeling,
and makes it seem as if you belonged, and like the bicycle, had 'come
to stay.'"
Poppy threw a couple of driftwood logs upon the smouldering fire.
Around them sharp tongues of flame--rose and saffron, amber, sea-green,
and heliotrope, glories as of a tropic sunset--leaped upward. She stood
watching these, her left hand resting on the edge of the mantelpiece,
her right holding up the front of her black skirt. Her right foot
rested on the fender curb, thereby displaying a discreet interval of
openwork silk stocking and a neatly cut steel-buckled shoe. The
many-hued firelight flickered over her dark figure; over the soft lace
jabot at her throat and ruffles at her wrists; over her pale profile;
and glinted in the heavy masses of her hair. The room, facing east, was
cold with shadow, which the thin fantastic colours of the flames
appeared to emphasise rather than to relieve. And Iglesias, obedient to
her entreaty, sat quietly waiting until it should again please her to
speak. For he had begun to accept her many changes of mood as an
integral element of her personality--a personality rich in rapid and
subtle contradictions. Often he had no clue to the meaning of these
many changes. But he did not mind that. Not absence of vulgar curiosity
alone, but an unwilling sub-conscious shrinking from any too close
acquaintance with the details of her life contributed to render him
passive. He had a conviction, though he had never formulated it even in
thought, that ignorance in relation to her made for security and
content. And there was a refined charm in this--namely, that each to
the other, even while friendship deepened, should remain something of
an undiscovered country. Moreover, had she not told him that he rested
her? To ask questions, however sympathetic, to volunteer consolation,
however delicately worded, is to risk being officious; and to be
officious, in however mild a degree, is to drive away the shy and
illusive spirit of rest. And so Dominic Iglesias was coming, in the
good nautical reading of that phrase, simply "to stand by" and wait
where this woman was concerned. After all, it was but the reapplication
of a lesson learned long ago for the support and solace of another
woman, by him supremely loved. To act thus was, therefore, not only
natural but poignantly sweet to him, as a new and gentle offering laid
upon the dear altar of his dead. It rejoiced him to find that now, as
of old, the demand created a supply of silent but sustaining moral
force, ready to pass into the sphere of active help should necessity
arise.
Nevertheless as the minutes passed, while daylight and firelight alike
began to fade, Dominic Iglesias grew somewhat troubled and sad. And it
was with a distinct movement of relief that he, at last, saw Poppy draw
herself up, push the soft masses of her hair back from her forehead
with a petulant gesture, and turn towards him. As she did so she let
her hands drop at her sides, as though she had finished with and
dismissed some unwelcome form of thought, while her face showed wan,
and her eyes large and vague, as though they saw beyond and through all
that which they actually looked on.
"There, there," she said harshly, with an angry lift of her head, "what
a silly fool I am, wasting time like this when you are here. But my
soul went out of my body; and I could afford to let it go, just because
you were here, and I felt safe." Her tone softened. "Sure I don't bore
you?" she asked.
Dominic shook his head, smiling.
"Very sure," he said.
"Bless you, then that's all right." Poppy strolled back and sat down
languidly. "I've gone confoundedly tired," she said. "You see, I sat up
half the night acting Gamp to Cappadocia--if you excuse my again
alluding to the domestic event.--Oh! my being tired doesn't matter. My
dear man, I'm never ill. I'm as strong as a horse. Let's talk of
something more interesting--let's review the topics of the hour--only
for the life of me I can't remember what the topics of the hour are!
Yes, I know though--the management of the Twentieth Century Theatre has
given Dot Parris a leading part. Does that leave you cold? Impossible!
Why, in theatrical circles it's a world-shaking event. I own I'm
curious to see how she does in legitimate drama, after her career in
musical comedy and at the halls, myself. I'm really very fond of her,
poor little Dot. She's going to call herself Miss Charlotte Colthurst
in the future, I understand. Did you ever hear such cheek? But then she
always had the cheek of the old gentleman himself, and that makes for
success. Cheek does go an awfully long way towards bringing you
through, don't you think so?"
"Probably," Dominic said. "My opportunities of exercising that
particular form of virtue have been so limited that I am quite prepared
to accept your ruling on the point."
Poppy laughed softly, looking at him with a great friendliness.
"Ah! but it wouldn't have been cheek in your case, anyhow. It would
merely have been that you stepped into your right place, ascended any
throne that happened to be right divine. I can see you doing it, so
statelily and yet so innocently. It would be a perfectly delicious
sight. I believe you will do it yet, some day, somehow, and make a lot
of people sit up. But that reminds me, joking apart, there is a topic
of the hour I wanted to ask you about. Tell me what you think of this
war."
And Dominic Iglesias, once more obedient to her changing mood, replied
with quiet sincerity:
"I am told I am an alarmist. I hope I may prove to be so, for in this
matter I should much prefer the optimists to be in the right. But I
confess I do not like the outlook. Both on public and private grounds
this war makes me anxious."
Poppy's languor had vanished. She had grown very much alive again. Now
she leaned forward, pressing her hands together, palm to palm, between
her knees, and making herself small, as a child does when it is deeply
in earnest and wants to think.
"You're right," she assented. "I'm perfectly certain all this cocksure
Johnny-head-in-air business, 'sail to-day and see you again at tea
tomorrow, so it's not worth while saying good-by'--you know the
style?--is fatuous and idiotic. It is not bluff, because the English
officer-man doesn't bluff. He hasn't the brains, to begin with, and
then he is a very sound sort of an animal. He doesn't need to hide his
fright for the simple reason that he's not frightened. A friend of mine
was talking about it all yesterday. He thinks as you do, and he's no
silly, though he is a member of the House of Lords.--After all, he
can't help that, poor dear old chap," she added apologetically, looking
sideways at Mr. Iglesias. "But there, you've seen him, I believe. You
met him the first time you came here. Don't you remember, I had to turn
you out because I had to see him on business, and you ran across him in
the hall as you were going?"
"I remember meeting someone," Dominic said, rather loftily. He did not
want to hear any more. The conversation had become displeasing to him,
though he could have given no reason for his displeasure. But Poppy
suddenly turned mischievous and naughty. She patted her hands gently
together between her knees and swayed with rather impish merriment.
"Ah, of course you were much too grand to take any particular notice of
him, poor brute. But he wasn't a bit too grand to take a lot of notice
of you. He was fearfully impressed. Yes, I tell you he was. Don't be
cross. I am speaking the veracious truth. I give you my word I'm not
gassing. He was awfully keen to know who you were, and where you came
from, and how I met you. And it was the sweetest thing out to be able
to reply that I'd been introduced to you on a bench--a mighty
uncomfortable one, too, with no back to it!--on Barnes Common by
Cappadocia; and that as to your name and local habitation I hadn't the
faintest ghost of a notion what they were. Are you cross? Don't be
cross," Poppy pleaded.
"No, no, of course not," Mr. Iglesias answered, goaded from his
habitual calm and speaking almost sharply.
Poppy patted her palms together again, swaying backwards and forwards.
Her eyes were dancing.
"Oh! but you are, though," she cried. "You're just a wee bit jealous.
You are--you know you are, and I'm not a scrap sorry. On the contrary,
I'm enchanted. For it shows that you are human after all, and must have
a name and address tucked away somewhere about you. I don't want to
know what they are, but it's comfortable to be assured of their
existence. It shows you don't drop straight down from heaven--as I was
beginning to be afraid you did--once a week, into the Mortlake Road,
and then go straight up again. It shows that I could get on to you by
post, or telephone, or other means of communication common to mortals,
if I was in a tight place and really wanted you, without walking as far
as Hammersmith Bridge and waiting in the wind and the wet on the bare
chance you might take it into your august head to materialise, and
break out of paradise, and take a little stroll round our sublunary
sphere."
For a moment Poppy laid her hand lightly on Mr. Iglesias' shoulder.
"Yes, be cross," she repeated. "Just as cross as ever you like, so long
as you don't keep it up too protractedly. It's the most engaging piece
of flattery I've come across for a month of Sundays. Only you needn't
worry in this particular instance, dear man, I give you my word you
needn't. It's a sheer waste of feeling. For Fallowfeild's always been
perfectly decent with me. I know people think him an awfully risky lot,
but they're noodles. He's racketed in his day--of course he has. But if
he'd been more of a hypocrite, people would have talked less. As the
man says in the play, it's not the sin but the being found out which
makes the scandal. And Fallowfeild was too honest. He never pretended
to be better than he was. He is a man of good nature who has done wrong
things, which is quite different to being a man of bad nature who does
wrong things, and still more different to being a man of weak nature
who pretends to do right things. That last is the sort I hate most, and
I speak out of beastly intimate experience."
She made a most expressive grimace, as though she had a remarkably
disagreeable taste in her mouth.
"No salvation for that sort, I believe," she went on, "either here or
hereafter. Now, are you better? You do believe it has always been
perfectly square and above-board between Fallowfeild and me, don't you?"
"Unquestionably, I believe it," Dominic answered. He spoke slowly.
Poppy turned her head sharply and looked hard at him.
"Ah! but I don't quite like that," she said. "I've muddled it
somehow--I see I have. I've hurt and offended you. You're farther off
than you were ten minutes ago. In spirit you've got up and gone away. I
have muddled it. I have made you distrust me."
"No," Dominic answered, "you have not made me distrust you; but you
have perplexed me. It is the result of my own dulness, no doubt. My
imagination is not agile enough to follow you, and so--"
He hesitated. That which he had in his mind was not easy to put into
words without discourtesy. He would far rather have left it unsaid; but
to do so would have been, in truth, to stand farther off, to erect a
barrier which might prove insuperable to happy companionship in the
future.
"Yes?" Poppy queried. Her voice shook just perceptibly. In the
deepening dusk neither could see the other distinctly, and this
contributed to Dominic's decision to speak.
"It pains me," he said at last, "if you will pardon my frankness, that
you should think it necessary to account for yourself and justify
yourself as you often appear to do."
"Yes?" Poppy queried again.
"That you should do so distresses and disturbs me."
"Yes," Poppy murmured.
"I am afraid I grow selfish," Iglesias went on gently; "but you have
been good enough to tell me that my poor friendship is of value to you.
Does it not occur to you that yours is of far greater value to me? And
that for many and obvious reasons--these among others, that while you
are young, and have a wide circle of acquaintances, and in a future to
which, brilliant as you are, you may look forward with hope and
assurance, I am absolutely alone in the world. Save for one old
school-fellow, who has been very faithful to me, there is no one to
whom it matters, except in the most superficial degree, whether I live
or die."
"Ah!" Poppy said softly.
"Do not misunderstand me, I do not complain," Iglesias added. "I
entertain no doubt but that the circumstances in which I find myself
are the right and profitable ones for me, if I only lay to heart the
lessons they teach, and use the opportunities which they afford me."
"I don't know about that--I doubt that," Poppy put in hastily.
"You doubt it because you are young," he answered, "and your
circumstances are capable of alteration and development. Except under
very exceptional conditions, resignation is no virtue in the young. It
is more often an excuse for cowardice and sloth. But at my age the
world changes its complexion. My circumstances are incapable of
alteration and development. They are final. Therefore I do well to
accept them unreservedly. The work of my life is done. I do not say
that it has been a failure, for I fulfilled the main object I had in
view. But it has certainly been obscure and inglorious. The sun will
sink dimly enough into a bank of fog. My present is meagre in interest
and activity. My future, a brief enough one in all probability, must of
necessity be meagre likewise. Therefore your friendship is of supreme
importance to me."
Iglesias paused. His voice was grave, distinct, weighted with feeling.
He did not look at his companion; he could not trust himself to do so,
for he had discovered in himself unexpected depths of emotion.
"And just on that account," he went on, "I grow childishly nervous,
childishly apprehensive if anything arises which seems to cloud or, in
however small a measure, to endanger the serenity of our intercourse."
He turned and looked at her.
"This constitutes no slight to you, dear friend."
"No," she said, "very certainly it is no slight. On the contrary, it is
very beautiful; but it's an awful responsibility, too."
She sat quite still, her head carried high, her hands clasped in her
lap.
"I've underrated the position, I see. I've only thought of myself so
far and how you pleased me. But though I'm pretty cheeky, too--almost
as cheeky as little Dot--I never had the presumption to put the affair
the other way about."
Poppy began to sway slightly again and pat the palms of her hands
together between her knees.
"It's been a game, the finest game I've ever played; and I swore by all
my gods to play fair. But, as you look at it, our friendship amounts to
a good deal more than a game. It goes very deep. And I'm not sure--.
no, I'm not--whether I'm equal to it."
She glanced at Iglesias strangely through the clinging grey of the dusk.
"Dear unknown," she said, "I give you my word I'm frightened--I who've
never been frightened at any man yet. In my own little way I've played
pitch and toss with their hearts and made footballs of them--except
that poor young fellow--I told you about him the first time we met--who
gave me the scarf, and whose people wouldn't let him marry me. But this
affair with you is different. It goes very far, it means--it means
nothing short of revolution for me, of putting away and renouncing very
much."
Poppy got up, stood pushing her hair back with both hands from her
forehead. Then she moved across to the further side of the fireplace.
Dominic had risen also. He stood on the near side of the hearth. He was
penetrated with the conviction that a crisis was upon them both,
involving all the happiness of their future relation to one another.
"You don't understand," Poppy cried passionately. "And I don't want you
to understand--that's half the trouble. I want to keep you. Your
friendship's the loveliest thing I've ever had. And yet I don't know.
For I'm not one woman--I'm half-a-dozen women, and they all pull all
sorts of ways so that I daren't trust myself. I want to keep you, I
tell you, I want horribly to keep you. Yet I'm ghastly afraid I'm not
equal to it. The price is too big."
As she spoke Poppy dashed her hand against the push of the electric
bell, and held it there, ringing a prolonged alarum, in quick response
to which Phillimore, the respectable elderly parlour maid, appeared,
bearing two rose-shaded lamps. Noiselessly and deftly--as one
accustomed to agitations, whose eyes did not see or ears hear if it
should be unadvisable to permit them to do so--she drew the curtains,
made up the fire, set out the tea-table. And with that change of scene
and shutting out of the dusk, Poppy seemed to change also; gravity and
strength of purpose departing from her, and leaving
her--notwithstanding her sober dress--unreal, fictitious, artificial,
the red-lipped carmine-tinted lady of the footlights, of the windswept
dust and embroidered dragons again. She chattered, moreover,
ceaselessly, careless of interruption, and of criticism alike.
"Here, let's hark back to the ordinary conduct of material existence,"
she said. "Tea? Won't you sit down? No--well, just as you like best.
Take it standing. Let me see, what were we discussing when we got
switched on to unexpectedly personal lines of conversation? The
war--yes, I remember. I was just going to tell you that Fallowfeild
believes it's going to be a nasty dragging unsatisfactory business.
Everyone gasses about the Boers being a simple pastoral people. But
Fallowfeild says their simplicity is just another name for guile, and
that he anyway can't conceive a more disconcerting job than fighting a
nation of farmers and huntsmen and gamekeepers in their own country,
every inch of which they know. People say they've no military science.
But so jolly much the better for them. They can be unfettered
opportunists, with nothing to think of but outwitting the enemy and
saving their property and their skins. The poor British Tommy will be
no match for them; nor will the British officer-man either, till he's
unlearned his parade-ground etiquette, and his haw-haw red-tape methods
and manner, and learned their very primitive but very cute and foxy
ones. By which time, Fallowfeild says, the mourning warehouses here at
home will have made a record turnover, and there will be altogether too
many new graveyards for comfort in South Africa."
Poppy paused in her harangue, for Dominic Iglesias had set down his
cup, its contents untasted. He was sad at heart.
"Are you going?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered. "It grows late. It's time I went, I think."
"Perhaps it is." Poppy's eyes had become inscrutable. "I really ought
to attend to my Gamping, and pass the time of day with Cappadocia. Her
snappishness has scared the maids. They refuse to go within a measured
furlong of her."
Poppy bent down over the tea-table, arranging the teacups with
elaborate neatness.
"Good-by," she said. "I don't quite know when we shall meet again."
"Why?" Iglesias asked. The muscles of his throat were rigid. He had
much ado to speak plainly and naturally. "Are you leaving home?"
"Home?" she answered. "Yes, I'm leaving it. Good-by again. Don't let me
keep you. Certainly I'm leaving home. Indeed, I believe I have left it
already--for good."
And she threw back her head and laughed.
Upon the doorstep a cold rush of air met Mr. Iglesias. Above, the sky
was blue-black and very clear. The road was vacant and grey with frost.
The flame of the gaslamps quivered, giving off a sharp brightness in
the keen atmosphere. Mr. Iglesias turned up the collar of his coat and
descended the steps. Just then a hansom emerged from the distance and
drew up with a rattle and grind against the curb some twenty paces
ahead. The occupant, a young man, flung back the doors with a thud, and
stood a moment on the footboard paying the driver, who raised himself,
leaning forward with outstretched hand across the glistening black roof
of the cab. Then the young man turned round, swung himself down on to
the asphalt pavement, and came forward as rapidly as a long motor-coat,
reaching to his heels, would permit. He was tall and fair,
well-favoured, preoccupied, not to say morose. He did not vouchsafe Mr.
Iglesias so much as a glance as he brushed past him. The road was still
vacant, and in the frosty air sounds carried. Mr. Iglesias distinctly
heard him race up a neighbouring flight of steps, heard the click and
turn of a latchkey in a lock, heard the slam of a front door pulled to
violently. And so doing Dominic turned cold and a little faint. He
would not condescend to look back; but he had recognised Alaric
Barking, and was in no doubt which house he had entered.
"Keb, sir? 'Ere yer are, sir," the cabby called cheerily. "Very cold
night. Just set one gentleman down, and 'appy to tike another up. Want
to get back to my comfy little West End shelter, so I'll tike yer for
'alf fares, sir, though we are outside the blooming radius."
But Iglesias shook his head. The horse stood limply in a cloud of
steam. Alaric Barking had evidently pushed the pace. But even had the
animal been in better condition, Iglesias had no desire to drive in
that particular cab. He would rather have walked the whole way to Cedar
Lodge.
Opposite the Bell Inn, where the roads fork--one turning away through
Mortlake, the other leading to Barnes Common, Roehampton, and
Sheen--the row of smart little houses degenerates into shops. By the
time he reached these Mr. Iglesias discovered that he was unaccountably
tired. The keen air oppressed his chest, making his breath come short.
It was useless to attempt to go home on foot. Then, with a sense of
relief, he saw that on the far side of the road a couple of omnibuses
stood, the horses' heads turned Londonwards. He crossed, climbed the
stairway of the leading vehicle slowly, and sank into a seat. The
'bustop was unoccupied, yet Dominic was not by himself. Two companions
had climbed the winding stairway with him and taken their places beside
him, Old Age on his left hand, Loneliness on his right. All up the long
suburban road, while the omnibus bumped and jolted and the fallen
leaves whirled and scurried before the searching breath of the night
wind Iglesias' two companions seemed to lean across him, talking. There
were tones of mockery in their talk, while behind and through it, as
some discordant refrain, he heard the ring of a young man's eager
footsteps, the click and turn of a latchkey, and the slam of a door as
it shut. On nearing the river the cold grew intense. Crossing the
bridge, the waterside lights were reflected in the surface of the
stream, which ran full and strong from the autumn rains, swirling
seaward with an ebbing tide. To Iglesias' eyes the reflections
converted themselves into fiery dragons, writhing in the heat of deadly
conflict, as upon Poppy St. John's oriental scarf. A glare hung over
London, palpitating as with multitudinous and angry life; and when the
omnibus slowed up in Hammersmith Broadway the voice of the streets grew
loud--the monstrous city, so it seemed to Dominic Iglesias, shouting
defiance to the majestic calm and solemnity of the eternal stars.