A friendly city seemed London to Clara as she left the shop. A fresh
wind was blowing, and she stood for some moments to drink in the keen
air. The sky was full of clouds, gray, white, and cinnamon against the
smoky blue, as she turned south with eyes newly eager for beauty and
friendliness. Above the roofs, the statue of Lord Nelson stood perched
in absurd elevation above the London that flouted his Emma, and Clara
laughed to see the little gray man in cocked hat symbolising for her
the delicious absurdity of London, where nothing and nobody could ever
be of the smallest importance in its hugeness.... This was its charm,
that an individual could in it feel the indifference of humanity
exactly as on a hill the indifference of Nature can be felt. A city of
strangers! Everybody was strange to everybody else. That was good and
healthy. Nothing in London was on show, nothing dressed for the
tourist. Living in rooms in London, one could be as lonely as in a hut
in the wilderness.
She walked down to the Imperium, and, entering by the stage door, found
Charles in excited converse with the scenic artist, Mr Smithson, who
was looking at a drawing and scratching his head dubiously.
'It's clever, Mr Mann, but nothing like the seaside. Sir Henry's sure
to want his waves "off," and the sun ought to look a bit like it.'
'That's my design, Mr Smithson. Sir Henry said you would paint it. If
you won't, I'll do it myself.... Ah! Clara, do come and explain to Mr
Smithson what we want.'