ot glow at the thought of the glamorous past is dulled
indeed. Piccadilly struck her now rather as a show and a poor one, a
show of the inefficients basking, of the wretched shuffling by. And the
savagery that was upon her waxed fat. Without ideals of ultimate
brotherhood or love she could not help thinking, half amused, of the
dismay that would come over London if a bomb were suddenly to raze to
the ground one of these shrines of men.

The bus stopped in a block just opposite one of the clubs; and Victoria,
from the off-side seat, could see across the road into one of the rooms.
There were in it a dozen men of all ages, most of them standing in small
groups, some already in evening-dress; some lolled on enormous padded
chairs reading, and, against the mantlepiece where a fire burned
brightly, a youth was telling an obviously successful story to a group
of oldsters. Their ease, their conviviality and facile friendship stung
Victoria; she felt an outcast. What had she now to do with these men?
They would not know her. Their sphere was their father's sphere, by
right of birth and wealth, not hers who had not the right of wealth.
Besides, perhaps some were shareholders in the P.R.R. Painfully
shambling down the steps, Victoria got off the bus and entered the Green
Park. She sat down on a seat under a tree just bursting into bud.

For many minutes she looked at the young grass, at the windows where
lights were appearing, at a man seated near by and puffing rich blue
smoke from his cigar. A loafer lay face down on the grass, like a
bundle. Her moods altered between rage, as she looked at the two men,
and misery as she realised that her lot was cast with the wretch
grovelling on the cold earth.

She noticed that the man with the cigar was watching her, but hardly
looked at him. He was fat, that was all she knew. Her eyes once more
fastened on the loafer. He had not fought the world; would she? and how?
Now and then he turned a little in his sleep, dreaming perhaps of feasts
in Cockayne, perhaps of the skilly he had tasted in gaol, of love
perhaps, bright-eyed, master of the gates. It was cold, for the snap of
winter was in the spring air; in the pale western sky the roofs loomed
black. Already the dull glow of London light rose like a halo over the
town. Victoria did not seem to feel the wind; she was a little numb, her
legs felt heavy as lead. A gust of wind carried into her face a few
drops of rain.

The man with the ci