It was a brilliant spring; the day was radiant. Even the air seemed to have a burr in it as it touched the tree tops; it vibrated, it rippled. The leaves were sharp and green. In the country old church clocks rasped out the hour; the rusty sound went over fields that were red with clover, and up went the rooks as if flung by the bells. Round they wheeled; then settled on the tree tops.

In London all was gallant and strident; the season was beginning; horns hooted; the traffic roared; flags flew taut as trout in a stream. And from all the spires of all the London churches — the fashionable saints of Mayfair, the dowdy saints of Kensington, the hoary saints of the city — the hour was proclaimed. The air over London seemed a rough sea of sound through which circles travelled. But the clocks were irregular, as if the saints themselves were divided. There were pauses, silences. . . . Then the clocks struck again.

Here in Ebury Street some distant frail-voiced clock was striking. It was eleven. Martin, standing at his window, looked down on the narrow street. The sun was bright; he was in the best of spirits; he was going to visit his stockbroker in the city. His affairs were turning out well. At one time, he was thinking, his father had made a lot of money; then he lost it; then he made it; but in the end he had done very well.

He stood at the window for a moment admiring a lady of fashion in a charming hat who was looking at a pot in the curiosity shop opposite. It was a blue pot on a Chinese stand with green brocade behind it. The sloping symmetrical body, the depth of blue, the little cracks in the glaze pleased him. And the lady looking at the pot was also charming.

He took his hat and stick and went out into the street. He would walk part of the way to the City. “The King of Spain’s daughter” he hummed as he turned up Sloane Street, “came to visit me. All for the sake of. . . . ” He looked into the shop windows as he passed. They were full of summer dresses; charming confections of green and gauze, and there were flights of hats stuck on little rods. “ . . . all for the sake of” he hummed as he walked on, “my silver nutmeg tree.” But what was a silver nutmeg tree he wondered? An organ was fluting its merry little jig further down the street. The organ moved round and round, shifted this way and that, as if the old man who played it were half dancing to the tune. A pretty servant girl ran up the area steps and gave him a penny. His supple Italian face wrinkled all over as he whipped off his cap and bowed to her. The girl smiled and slipped back into the kitchen.

“ . . . all for the sake of my silver nutmeg tree” Martin hummed, peering down through the area railings into the kitchen where they were sitting. They looked very snug, with teapots and bread and butter on the kitchen table. His stick swung from side to side like the tail of a cheerful dog. Everybody seemed light-hearted and irresponsible, sallying out of their houses, flaunting along the streets with pennies for the organ-grinders and pennies for the beggars. Everybody seemed to have money to spend. Women clustered round the plate-glass windows. He too stopped, looked at the model of a toy boat; at dressing-cases, shining yellow with rows of silver bottles. But who wrote that song, he wondered, as he strolled on, about the King of Spain’s daughter, the song that Pippy used to sing him, as she wiped his ears with a piece of slimy flannel? She used to take him on her knee and croak out in her wheezy rattle of a voice, “The King of Spain’s daughter came to visit me, all for the sake of. . . . ” And then suddenly her knee gave, and down he was tumbled onto the floor.

Here he was at Hyde Park Corner. The scene was extremely animated. Vans, motor-cars, motor omnibuses were streaming down the hill. The trees in the Park had little green leaves on them. Cars with gay ladies in pale dresses were already passing in at the gates. Everybody was going about their business. And somebody, he observed, had written the words “God is Love” in pink chalk on the gates of Apsley House. That must need some pluck, he thought, to write “God is love” on the gates of Apsley House when at any moment a policeman might nab you. But here came his bus; and he climbed on top.

“To St. Paul’s,” he said, handing the conductor his coppers.

The omnibuses swirled and circled in a perpetual current round the steps of St. Paul’s. The statue of Queen Anne seemed to preside over the chaos and to supply it with a centre, like the hub of a wheel. It seemed as if the white lady ruled the traffic with her sceptre; directed the activities of the little men in bowler hats and round coats; of the women carrying attaché cases; of the vans, the lorries and the motor omnibuses. Now and then single figures broke off from the rest and went up the steps into the church. The doors of the Cathedral kept opening and shutting. Now and again a blast of faint organ music was blown out into the air. The pigeons waddled; the sparrows fluttered. Soon after midday a little old man carrying a paper bag took up his station half-way up the steps and proceeded to feed the birds. He held out a slice of bread. His lips moved. He seemed to be wheedling and coaxing them. Soon he was haloed by a circle of fluttering wings. Sparrows perched on his head and his hands. Pigeons waddled close to his feet. A little crowd gathered to watch him feeding the sparrows. He tossed his bread round him in a circle. Then there was a ripple in the air. The great clock, all the clocks of the city, seemed to be gathering their forces together; they seemed to be whirring a preliminary warning. Then the stroke struck. “One” blared out. All the sparrows fluttered up into the air; even the pigeons were frightened; some of them made a little flight round the head of Queen Anne.

As the last ripple of the stroke died away, Martin came out in the open space in front of the Cathedral.

He crossed over and stood with his back against a shop window looking up at the great dome. All the weights in his body seemed to shift. He had a curious sense of something moving in his body in harmony with the building; it righted itself: it came to a full stop. It was exciting — this change of proportion. He wished he had been an architect. He stood with his back pressed against the shop trying to get the whole of the cathedral clear. But it was difficult with so many people passing. They knocked against him and brushed in front of him. It was the rush hour, of course, when City men were making for their luncheons. They were taking short cuts across the steps. The pigeons were swirling up and then settling down again. The doors were opening and shutting as he mounted the steps. The pigeons were a nuisance, he thought, making a mess on the steps. He climbed up slowly.

“And who’s that?” he thought, looking at someone who was standing against one of the pillars. “Don’t I know her?”

Her lips were moving. She was talking to herself.

“It’s Sally!” he thought. He hesitated; should he speak to her, or should he not? But she was company; and he was tired of his own.

“A penny for your thoughts, Sal!” he said, tapping her on the shoulder.

She turned; her expression changed instantly. “Just as I was thinking of you, Martin!” she exclaimed.

“What a lie!” he said, shaking hands.

“When I think of people, I always see them,” she said. She gave her queer little shuffle as if she were a bird, a somewhat dishevelled fowl, for her cloak was not in the fashion. They stood for a moment on the steps, looking down at the crowded street beneath. A gust of organ music came out from the Cathedral behind them as the doors opened and shut. The faint ecclesiastical murmur was vaguely impressive, and the dark space of the Cathedral seen through the door.

“What were you thinking . . .?” he began. But he broke off. “Come and lunch,” he said. “I’ll take you to a City chop house,” and he shepherded her down the steps, along a narrow alley, blocked by carts, into which packages were being shot from the warehouses. They pushed through the swing doors into the chop house.

“Very full today, Alfred,” said Martin affably, as the waiter took his coat and hat and hung them on the rack. He knew the waiter; he often lunched there; the waiter knew him too.

“Very full, Captain,” he said.

“Now,” he said, sitting down, “what shall we have?”

A vast brownish-yellow joint was being trundled from table to table on a lorry.

“That,” said Sara, waving her hand at it.

“And drink?” said Martin. He took the wine-list and consulted it.

“Drink —” said Sara, “drink, I leave to you.” She took off her gloves and laid them on a small reddish-brown book that was obviously a prayer-book.

“Drink you leave to me,” said Martin. Why, he wondered, do prayer- books always have their leaves gilt with red and gold? He chose the wine.

“And what were you doing,” he said, dismissing the waiter, “at St. Paul’s?”

“Listening to the service,” she said. She looked round her. The room was very hot and crowded. The walls were covered with gold leaves encrusted on a brown surface. People were passing them and coming in and out all the time. The waiter brought the wine. Martin poured her out a glass.

“I didn’t know you went to services,” he said, looking at her prayer-book.

She did not answer. She kept looking round her, watching the people come in and go out. She sipped her wine. The colour was coming into her cheeks. She took up her knife and fork and began to eat the admirable mutton. They ate in silence for a moment.

He wanted to make her talk.

“And what, Sal,” he said, touching the little book, “d’you make of it?”

She opened the prayer-book at random and began to read:

“The father incomprehensible; the son incomprehensible —” she spoke in her ordinary voice.

“Hush!” he stopped her. “Somebody’s listening.”

In deference to him she assumed the manner of a lady lunching with a gentleman in a City restaurant.

“And what were you doing,” she asked, “at St. Paul’s?”

“Wishing I’d been an architect,” he said. “But they sent me into the Army instead, which I loathed.” He spoke emphatically.

“Hush,” she whispered. “Somebody’s listening.”

He looked round quickly; then he laughed. The waiter was setting their tart in front of them. They ate in silence. He filled her glass again. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were bright. He envied her the generalised sensation of universal wellbeing that he used to get from a glass of wine. Wine was good — it broke down barriers. He wanted to make her talk.

“I didn’t know you went to services,” he said, looking at her prayer-book. “And what do you think of it?” She looked at it too. Then she tapped it with her fork.

“What do they think of it, Martin?” she asked. “The woman praying and the man with a long white beard?”

“Much what Crosby thinks when she comes to see me,” he said. He thought of the old woman standing at the door of his room with the pyjama jacket over her arm, and the devout look on her face.

“I’m Crosby’s God,” he said, helping her to brussels sprouts.

“Crosby’s God! Almighty, all-powerful Mr Martin!” She laughed.

She raised her glass to him. Was she laughing at him? he wondered. He hoped she did not think him very old. “You remember Crosby, don’t you?” he said. “She’s retired, and her dog’s dead.”

“Retired and her dog’s dead?” she repeated. She looked again over her shoulder. Conversation in a restaurant was impossible; it was broken into little fragments. City men in their neat striped suits and bowler hats were brushing past them all the time.

“It’s a fine church,” she said, turning round. She had hopped back to St. Paul’s, he supposed.

“Magnificent,” he replied. “Were you looking at the monuments?”

Somebody had come in whom he recognised: Erridge, the stockbroker. He raised a finger and beckoned. Martin rose and went to speak to him. When he came back she had filled her glass again. She was sitting there, looking at the people, as if she were a child that he had taken to a pantomime.

“And what are you doing this afternoon?” he asked.

“The Round Pond at four,” she said. She drummed on the table “The Round Pond at four.” Now she had passed, he guessed, into the drowsy benevolence which waits on a good dinner and a glass of wine.

“Meeting somebody?” he asked.

“Yes. Maggie,” she said.

They ate in silence. Fragments of other people’s talk reached them in broken sentences. Then the man to whom Martin had spoken touched him on the shoulder as he went out.

“Wednesday at eight,” he said.

“Right you are,” said Martin. He made a note in his pocket-book.

“And what are you doing this afternoon?” she asked.

“Ought to see my sister in prison,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

“In prison?” she asked.

“Rose. For throwing a brick,” he said.

“Red Rose, tawny Rose,” she began, reaching out her hand for the wine again, “wild Rose, thorny Rose —”

“No,” he said, putting his hand over the mouth of the bottle, “you’ve had enough.” A little excited her. He must damp her excitement. There were people listening.

“A damned unpleasant thing,” he said, “being in prison.”

She drew back her glass and sat gazing at it, as if the engine of the brain were suddenly cut off. She was very like her mother — except when she laughed.

He would have liked to talk to her about her mother. But it was impossible to talk. Too many people were listening, and they were smoking. Smoke mixed with the smell of meat made the air heavy. He was thinking of the past when she exclaimed:

“Sitting on a three-legged stool having meat crammed down her throat!”

He roused himself. She was thinking of Rose, was she?

“Crash came a brick!” she laughed, flourishing her fork.

“‘Roll up the map of Europe,’ said the man to the flunkey. ‘I don’t believe in force’!” She brought down her fork. A plum-stone jumped. Martin looked round. People were listening. He got up.

“Shall we go?” he said, “— if you’ve had enough?”

She got up and looked for her cloak.

“Well, I’ve enjoyed it,” she said, taking her cloak. “Thanks, Martin, for my good lunch.”

He beckoned to the waiter who came with alacrity and totted up the bill. Martin laid a sovereign on the plate. Sara began to thrust her arms into the sleeves of her cloak.

“Shall I come with you,” he said, helping her, “to the Round Pond at four?”

“Yes!” she said, spinning round on her heel. “To the Round Pond at four!”

She walked off, a little unsteadily he observed, past the City men who were still eating.

Here the waiter came up with the change and Martin began to slip it in his pocket. He kept back one coin for the tip. But as he was about to give it, he was struck by something shifty in Alfred’s expression. He flicked up the flap of the bill; a two-shilling piece lay beneath. It was the usual trick. He lost his temper.

“What’s this?” he said angrily.

“Didn’t know it was there, sir,” the waiter stammered.

Martin felt his blood rise to his ears. He felt exactly like his father in a rage; as if he had white spots above his temples. He pocketed the coin that he had been going to give the waiter; and marched past him, brushing aside his hand. The man slunk back with a murmur.

“Let’s be off,” he said, hustling Sara along the crowded room. “Let’s get out of this.”

He hurried her into the street. The fug, the warm meaty smell of the City chop-house, had suddenly become intolerable.

“How I hate being cheated!” he said as he put on his hat.

“Sorry, Sara,” he apologised. “I oughtn’t to have taken you there. It’s a beastly hole.”

He drew in a breath of fresh air. The street noises, the unconcerned, business-like look of things, were refreshing after the hot steamy room. There were the carts waiting, drawn up along the street; and the packages sliding down into them from the warehouses. Again they came out in front of St. Paul’s. He looked up. There was the same old man still feeding the sparrows. And there was the Cathedral. He wished he could feel again the sense of weights changing in his body and coming to a stop; but the queer thrill of some correspondence between his own body and the stone no longer came to him. He felt nothing except anger. Also, Sara distracted him. She was about to cross the crowded road. He put out his hand to stop her. “Take care,” he said. Then they crossed.

“Shall we walk?” he asked. She nodded. They began to walk along Fleet Street. Conversation was impossible. The pavement was so narrow that he had to step on and off in order to keep beside her. He still felt the discomfort of anger, but the anger itself was cooling. What ought I to have done? he thought, seeing himself brush past the waiter without giving him a tip. Not that; he thought, no, not that. People pressing against him made him step off the pavement. After all, the poor devil had to make a living. He liked being generous: he liked to leave people smiling; and two shillings meant nothing to him. But what’s the use, he thought, now it’s done? He began to hum his little song — and then stopped, remembering that he was with someone.

“Look at that, Sal,” he said, clutching at her arm. “Look at that!”

He pointed at the splayed-out figure at Temple Bar; it looked as ridiculous as usual — something between a serpent and a fowl.

“Look at that!” he repeated laughing. They paused for a moment to look at the little flattened figures lodged so uncomfortably against the pediment of Temple Bar: Queen Victoria: King Edward. Then they walked on. It was impossible to talk because of the crowd. Men in wigs and gowns hurried across the street: some carried red bags, others blue bags.

“The Law Courts,” he said, pointing at the cold mass of decorated stone. It looked very gloomy and funereal, “ . . . where Morris spends his time,” he said aloud.

He still felt uncomfortable at having lost his temper. But the feeling was passing. Only a little ridge of roughness remained in his mind.

“D’you think I ought to have been . . . ” he began, a barrister he meant; but also Ought I to have done that — lost his temper with the waiter.

“Ought to have been — ought to have done?” she asked, bending towards him. She had not caught his meaning in the roar of the traffic. It was impossible to talk; but at any rate the feeling that he had lost his temper was diminishing. That little sting was being successfully smoothed over. Then back it came because he saw a beggar selling violets. And that poor devil, he thought, had to go without his tip because he cheated me. . . . He fixed his eyes on a pillar-box. Then he looked at a car. It was odd how soon one got used to cars without horses, he thought. They used to look ridiculous. They passed the woman selling violets. She wore a hat over her face. He dropped a sixpence in her tray to make amends to the waiter. He shook his head. No violets, he meant; and indeed they were faded. But he caught sight of her face. She had no nose; her face was seamed with white patches; there were red rims for nostrils. She had no nose — she had pulled her hat down to hide that fact.

“Let’s cross,” he said, abruptly. He took Sara’s arm and made her cross between the omnibuses. She must have seen such sights often; he had, often; but not together — that made a difference. He hurried her on to the further pavement.

“We’ll get a bus,” he said, “Come along.”

He took her by the elbow to make her step out briskly. But it was impossible; a cart blocked the way; there were people passing. They were approaching Charing Cross. It was like the piers of a bridge; men and women were sucked in instead of water. They had to stop. Newspaper boys held placards against their legs. Men were buying papers: some loitered; others snatched them. Martin bought one and held it in his hand.

“We’ll wait here,” he said. “The bus’ll come.” An old straw hat with a purple ribbon round it, he thought opening his paper. The sight persisted. He looked up. The station clock’s always fast, he assured a man who was hurrying to catch a train. Always fast, he said to himself as he opened the paper. But there was no clock. He turned to read the news from Ireland. Omnibus after omnibus stopped, then swooped off again. It was difficult to concentrate on the news from Ireland; he looked up.

“This is ours,” he said, as the right bus came. They climbed on top and sat side by side overlooking the driver.

“Two to Hyde Park Corner,” he said, producing a handful of silver, and looked through the pages of the evening paper; but it was only an early edition.

“Nothing in it,” he said, stuffing the paper under the seat. “And now —” he began, filling his pipe. They were running smoothly down the incline of Piccadilly. “— where my old father used to sit,” he broke off, waving his pipe at Club windows. “ . . . and now”— he lit a match, “— and now, Sally, you can say whatever you like. Nobody’s listening. Say something,” he added, throwing his match overboard, “very profound.”

He turned to her. He wanted her to speak. Down they dipped; up they swooped again. He wanted her to speak; or he must speak himself. And what could he say? He had buried his feeling. But some emotion remained. He wanted her to speak it: but she was silent. No, he thought, biting the stem of his pipe. I won’t say it. If I did she’d think me . . .

He looked at her. The sun was blazing on the windows of St. George’s Hospital. She was looking at it with rapture. But why with rapture? he wondered, as the bus stopped and he got down.

The scene since the morning had changed slightly. Clocks in the distance were just striking three. There were more cars; more women in pale summer dresses; more men in tail-coats and grey top- hats. The procession through the gates into the park was beginning. Everyone looked festive. Even the little dressmakers’ apprentices with band-boxes looked as if they were taking part in some ceremonial. Green chairs were drawn up at the edge of the Row. They were full of people looking about them as if they had taken seats at a play. Riders cantered to the end of the Row; pulled up their horses; turned and cantered the other way. The wind, coming from the west, moved white clouds grained with gold across the sky. The windows of Park Lane shone with blue and gold reflections.

Martin stepped out briskly.

“Come along,” he said; “come — come!” He walked on. I’m young, he thought; I’m in the prime of life. There was a tang of earth in the air; even in the Park there was some faint smell of spring, of the country.

“How I like —” he said aloud. He looked round. He had spoken to the empty air. Sara had lagged behind; there she was, tying her shoe-lace. But he felt as if he had missed a step going downstairs.

“What a fool one feels when one talks aloud to oneself,” he said as she came up. She pointed.

“But look,” she said, “they all do it.”

A middle-aged woman was coming towards them. She was talking to herself. Her lips moved; she was gesticulating with her hand.

“It’s the spring,” he said, as she passed them.

“No. Once in winter I came here,” she said, “and there was a negro, laughing aloud in the snow.”

“In the snow,” said Martin. “A negro.” The sun was bright on the grass; they were passing a bed in which the many-coloured hyacinths were curled and glossy.

“Don’t let’s think of the snow,” he said. “Let’s think —” A young woman was wheeling a perambulator; a sudden thought came into his head. “Maggie,” he said. “Tell me. I haven’t seen her since her baby was born. And I’ve never met the Frenchman — what d’you call him? — René?”

“Renny,” she said. She was still under the influence of the wine; of the wandering airs; of the people passing. He too felt the same distraction; but he wanted to end it.

“Yes. What’s he like, this man René; Renny?”

He pronounced the word first in the French way; then as she did, in the English. He wanted to wake her. He took her arm.

“Renny!” Sara repeated. She threw her head back and laughed. “Let me see,” she said. “He wears a red tie with white spots. And has dark eyes. And he takes an orange — suppose we’re at dinner, and says, looking straight at you, ‘This orange, Sara —’” She rolled her r’s. She paused.

“There’s another person talking to himself,” she broke off. A young man came past them in a closely buttoned-up coat as if he had no shirt. He was muttering as he walked. He scowled at them as he passed them.

“But Renny?” said Martin.

“We were talking about Renny,” he reminded her. “He takes an orange —”

“ . . . and pours himself out a glass of wine,” she resumed. “‘Science is the religion of the future!’” she exclaimed, waving her hand as if she held a glass of wine.

“Of wine?” said Martin. Half listening, he had visualised an earnest French professor — a little picture to which now he must add inappropriately a glass of wine.

“Yes, wine,” she repeated. “His father was a merchant,” she continued. “A man with a black beard; a merchant at Bordeaux. And one day,” she continued, “when he was a little boy, playing in the garden, there was a tap on the window. ‘Don’t make so much noise. Play further away,’ said a woman in a white cap. His mother was dead. . . . And he was afraid to tell his father that the horse was too big to ride . . . and they sent him to England. . . . ”

She was skipping over railings.

“And then what happened?” said Martin, joining her. “They became engaged?”

She was silent. He waited for her to explain — why they had married — Maggie and Renny. He waited, but she said no more. Well, she married him and they’re happy he thought. He was jealous for a moment. The Park was full of couples walking together. Everything seemed fresh and full of sweetness. The air puffed soft in their faces. It was laden with murmurs; with the stir of branches; the rush of wheels; dogs barking, and now and again the intermittent song of a thrush.

Here a lady passed them, talking to herself. As they looked at her she turned and whistled, as if to her dog. But the dog she had whistled was another person’s dog. It bounded off in the opposite direction. The lady hurried on pursing her lips together.

“People don’t like being looked at,” said Sara, “when they’re talking to themselves.” Martin roused himself.

“Look here,” he said. “We’ve gone the wrong way.” Voices floated out to them.

They had been walking in the wrong direction. They were near the bald rubbed space where the speakers congregate. Meetings were in full swing. Groups had gathered round the different orators. Mounted on their platforms, or sometimes only on boxes, the speakers were holding forth. The voices became louder, louder and louder as they approached.

“Let’s listen,” said Martin. A thin man was leaning forward holding a slate in his hand. They could hear him say, “Ladies and gentlemen . . . ” They stopped in front of him. “Fix your eyes on me,” he said. They fixed their eyes on him. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, crooking his finger. He had an ingratiating manner. He turned his slate over. “Do I look like a Jew?” he asked. Then he turned his slate and looked on the other side. And they heard him say that his mother was born in Bermondsey, as they strolled on, and his father in the Isle of — The voice died away.

“What about this chap?” said Martin. Here was a large man, banging on the rail of his platform.

“Fellow citizens!” he was shouting. They stopped. The crowd of loafers, errand-boys and nursemaids gaped up at him with their mouths falling open and their eyes gazing blankly. His hand raked in the line of cars that was passing with a superb gesture of scorn. His shirt appeared under his waistcoat.

“Joostice and liberty,” said Martin, repeating his words, as the fist thumped on the railing. They waited. Then it all came over again.

“But he’s a jolly good speaker,” said Martin, turning. The voice died away. “And now, what’s the old lady saying?” They strolled on.

The old lady’s audience was extremely small. Her voice was hardly audible. She held a little book in her hand and she was saying something about sparrows. But her voice tapered off into a thin frail pipe. A chorus of little boys imitated her.

They listened for a moment. Then Martin turned again. “Come along, Sall,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

The voices grew fainter, fainter and fainter. Soon they ceased altogether. They strolled on across the smooth slope that rose and fell like a breadth of green cloth striped with straight brown paths in front of them. Great white dogs were gambolling; through the trees shone the waters of the Serpentine, set here and there with little boats. The urbanity of the Park, the gleam of the water, the sweep and curve and composition of the scene, as if somebody had designed it, affected Martin agreeably.

“Joostice and liberty,” he said half to himself, as they came to the water’s edge and stood a moment, watching the gulls cut the air into sharp white patterns with their wings.

“Did you agree with him?” he asked, taking Sara’s arm to rouse her; for her lips were moving; she was talking to herself. “That fat man,” he explained, “who flung his arm out.” She started.

“Oi, oi, oi!” she exclaimed, imitating his cockney accent.

Yes, thought Martin, as they walked on. Oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi. It’s always that. There wouldn’t be much justice or liberty for the likes of him if the fat man had his way — or beauty either.

“And the poor old lady whom nobody listened to?” he said, “talking about the sparrows. . . . ”

He could still see in his mind’s eye the thin man persuasively crooking his finger; the fat man who flung his arms out so that his braces showed; and the little old lady who tried to make her voice heard above the cat-calls and whistles. There was a mixture of comedy and tragedy in the scene.

But they had reached the gate into Kensington Gardens. A long row of cars and carriages was drawn up by the kerb. Striped umbrellas were open over the little round tables where people were already sitting, waiting for their tea. Waitresses were hurrying in and out with trays; the season had begun. The scene was very gay.

A lady, fashionably dressed with a purple feather dipping down on one side of her hat, sat there sipping an ice. The sun dappled the table and gave her a curious look of transparency, as if she were caught in a net of light; as if she were composed of lozenges of floating colours. Martin half thought that he knew her; he half raised his hat. But she sat there looking in front of her; sipping her ice. No, he thought; he did not know her, and he stopped for a moment to light his pipe. What would the world be, he said to himself — he was still thinking of the fat man brandishing his arm — without “I” in it? He lit the match. He looked at the flame that had become almost invisible in the sun. He stood for a second drawing at his pipe. Sara had walked on. She too was netted with floating lights from between the leaves. A primal innocence seemed to brood over the scene. The birds made a fitful sweet chirping in the branches; the roar of London encircled the open space in a ring of distant but complete sound. The pink and white chestnut blossoms rode up and down as the branches moved in the breeze. The sun dappling the leaves gave everything a curious look of insubstantiality as if it were broken into separate points of light. He too, himself, seemed dispersed. His mind for a moment was a blank. Then he roused himself, threw away his match, and caught up Sally.

“Come along!” he said. “Come along. . . . The Round Pond at four!”

They walked on arm in arm in silence, down the long avenue with the Palace and the phantom church at the end of its vista. The size of the human figure seemed to have shrunk. Instead of full-grown people, children were now in the majority. Dogs of all sorts abounded. The air was full of barking and sudden shrill cries. Coveys of nursemaids pushed perambulators along the paths. Babies lay fast asleep in them like images of faintly tinted wax; their perfectly smooth eyelids fitted over their eyes as if they sealed them completely. He looked down; he liked children. Sally had looked like that the first time he saw her, asleep in her perambulator in the hall in Browne Street.

He stopped short. They had reached the Pond.

“Where’s Maggie?” he said. “There — is that her?” He pointed to a young woman who was lifting a baby out of its perambulator under a tree.

“Where?” said Sara. She looked in the wrong direction.

He pointed.

“There, under that tree.”

“Yes,” she said, “that’s Maggie.”

They walked in that direction.

“But is it?” said Martin. He was suddenly doubtful; for she had the unconsciousness of a person who is unaware that she is being looked at. It made her unfamiliar. With one hand she held the child; with the other she arranged the pillows of the perambulator. She too was dappled with lozenges of floating light.

“Yes,” he said, noticing something about her gesture, “that’s Maggie.”

She turned and saw them.

She held up her hand as if to warn them to approach quietly. She put a finger to her lips. They approached silently. As they reached her, the distant sound of a clock striking was wafted on the breeze. One, two, three, four it struck. . . . Then it ceased.

“We met at St. Paul’s,” said Martin in a whisper. He dragged up two chairs and sat down. They were silent for a moment. The child was not asleep. Then Maggie bent over and looked at the child.

“You needn’t talk in a whisper,” she said aloud. “He’s asleep.”

“We met at St. Paul’s,” Martin repeated in his ordinary voice. “I’d been seeing my stockbroker.” He took off his hat and laid it on the grass. “And when I came out,” he resumed, “there was Sally. . . . ” He looked at her. She had never told him, he remembered, what it was that she was thinking, as she stood there, with her lips moving, on the steps of St. Paul’s.

Now she was yawning. Instead of taking the little hard green chair which he had pulled up for her, she had thrown herself down on the grass. She had folded herself like a grasshopper with her back against the tree. The prayer-book, with its red and gold leaves, was lying on the ground tented over with trembling blades of grass. She yawned; she stretched. She was already half asleep.

He drew his chair beside Maggie’s; and looked at the scene in front of them.

It was admirably composed. There was the white figure of Queen Victoria against a green bank; beyond, was the red brick of the old palace; the phantom Church raised its spire, and the Round Pond made a pool of blue. A race of yachts was going forward. The boats leant on their sides so that the sails touched the water. There was a nice little breeze.

“And what did you talk about?” said Maggie.

Martin could not remember. “She was tipsy,” he said, pointing to Sara. “And now she’s going to sleep.” He felt sleepy himself. The sun for the first time was almost hot on his head.

Then he answered her question.

“The whole world,” he said, “Politics; religion; morality.” He yawned. Gulls were screaming as they rose and sank over a lady who was feeding them. Maggie was watching them. He looked at her.

“I haven’t seen you,” he said, “since your baby was born.” It’s changed her, having a child, he thought. It’s improved her, he thought. But she was watching the gulls; the lady had thrown a handful of fish. The gulls swooped round and round her head.

“D’you like having a child?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, rousing herself to answer him. “It’s a tie though.”

“But it’s nice having ties, isn’t it?” he enquired. He was fond of children. He looked at the sleeping baby with its eyes sealed and its thumb in its mouth.

“D’you want them?” she asked.

“Just what I was asking myself,” he said, “before —”

Here Sara made a click at the back of her throat; he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Before I met her at St. Paul’s,” he said. They were silent. The baby was asleep; Sara was asleep; the presence of the two sleepers seemed to enclose them in a circle of privacy. Two of the racing yachts were coming together as if they must collide; but one passed just ahead of the other. Martin watched them. Life had resumed its ordinary proportions. Everything once more was back in its place. The boats were sailing; the men walking; the little boys dabbled in the pond for minnows; the waters of the pond rippled bright blue. Everything was full of the stir, the potency, the fecundity of spring.

Suddenly he said aloud:

“Possessiveness is the devil.”

Maggie looked at him. Did he mean herself — herself and the baby? No. There was a tone in his voice that told her he was thinking not of her.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“About the woman I’m in love with,” he said. “Love ought to stop on both sides, don’t you think, simultaneously?” He spoke without any stress on the words, so as not to wake the sleepers. “But it won’t — that’s the devil,” he added in the same undertone.

“Bored, are you?” she murmured.

“Stiff,” he said. “Bored stiff.” He stooped and disinterred a pebble in the grass.

“And jealous?” she murmured. Her voice was very low and soft.

“Horribly,” he whispered. It was true, now that she referred to it. Here the baby half woke and stretched out its hand. Maggie rocked the perambulator. Sara stirred. Their privacy was imperilled. It would be destroyed at any moment, he felt; and he wanted to talk.

He glanced at the sleepers. The baby’s eyes were shut, and Sara’s too. Still they seemed encircled in a ring of solitude. Speaking in a low voice without accent, he told her his story; the story of the lady; how she wanted to keep him, and he wanted to be free. It was an ordinary story, but painful — mixed. As he told it, however, the sting was drawn. They sat silent, looking in front of them.

Another race was starting; men crouched at the edge of the pond, each with his stick resting on a toy boat. It was a charming scene, gay, innocent and a trifle ridiculous. The signal was given; off the boats went. And will he, Martin thought, looking at the sleeping baby, go through the same thing too? He was thinking of himself — of his jealousy.

“My father,” he said suddenly, but softly, “had a lady. . . . She called him ‘Bogy’.” And he told her the story of the lady who kept a boarding house at Putney — the very respectable lady, grown stout, who wanted help with her roof. Maggie laughed, but very gently, so as not to wake the sleepers. Both were still sleeping soundly.

“Was he in love,” Martin asked her, “with your mother?”

She was looking at the gulls, cutting patterns on the blue distance with their wings. His question seemed to sink through what she was seeing; then suddenly it reached her.

“Are we brother and sister?” she asked; and laughed out loud. The child opened its eyes, and uncurled its fingers.

“We’ve woken him,” said Martin. He began to cry. Maggie had to soothe him. Their privacy was over. The child cried; and the clocks began striking. The sound came wafted gently towards them on the breeze. One, two, three, four, five. . . .

“It’s time to go,” said Maggie, as the last stroke died away. She laid the baby back on its pillow, and turned. Sara was still asleep. She lay crumpled up with her back to the tree. Martin stooped and threw a twig at her. She opened her eyes but shut them again.

“No, no,” she protested, stretching her arms over her head.

“It’s time,” said Maggie. She pulled herself up. “Time is it?” she sighed. “How strange . . .!” she murmured. She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“Martin!” she exclaimed. She looked at him as he stood over her in his blue suit holding his stick in his hand. She looked at him as if she were bringing him back to the field of vision.

“Martin!” she said again.

“Yes, Martin!” he replied. “Did you hear what we’ve been saying?” he asked her.

“Voices,” she yawned, shaking her head. “Only voices.”

He paused for a moment, looking down at her. “Well, I’m off,” he said, taking up his hat, “to dine with a cousin in Grosvenor Square,” he added. He turned and left them.

He looked back at them after he had gone a little distance. They were still sitting by the perambulator under the trees. He walked on. Then he looked back again. The ground sloped, and the trees were hidden. A very stout lady was being tugged along the path by a small dog on a chain. He could see them no longer.

The sun was setting as he drove across the Park, an hour or two later. He was thinking that he had forgotten something; but what, he did not know. Scene passed over scene; one obliterated another. Now he was crossing the bridge over the Serpentine. The water glowed with sunset light; twisted poles of lamp light lay on the water, and there, at the end the white bridge composed the scene. The cab entered the shadow of the trees, and joined the long line of cabs that was streaming towards the Marble Arch. People in evening dress were going to plays and parties. The light became yellower and yellower. The road was beaten to a metallic silver. Everything looked festive.

But I’m going to be late, he thought, for the cab was held up in a block by the Marble Arch. He looked at his watch — it was just on eight-thirty. But eight-thirty means eight-forty-five he thought, as the cab moved on. Indeed as it turned into the square there was a car at the door, and a man getting out. So I’m just on time, he thought, and paid the driver.

The door opened almost before he touched the bell, as if he had trod on a spring. The door opened, and two footmen started forward to take his things directly he entered the black-and-white paved hall. He followed another man up the imposing staircase of white marble, sweeping in a curve. A succession of large, dark pictures hung on the wall, and at the top outside the door was a yellow-and- blue picture of Venetian palaces and pale green canals.

“Canaletto or the school of?” he thought, pausing to let the other man precede him. Then he gave his name to the footman.

“Captain Pargiter,” the man boomed out; and there was Kitty standing at the door. She was formal; fashionable; with a dash of red on her lips. She gave him her hand; but he moved on for other guests were arriving. “A saloon?” he said to himself, for the room with its chandeliers, yellow panels, and sofas and chairs dotted about had the air of a grandiose waiting-room. Seven or eight people were already there. It’s not going to work this time, he said to himself as he chatted with his host, who had been racing. His face shone as if it had only that moment been taken out of the sun. One almost expected, Martin thought, as he stood talking, to see a pair of glasses slung round his shoulders, just as there was a red mark across his forehead where his hat had been. No, it’s not going to work, Martin thought as they talked about horses. He heard a paper boy calling in the street below, and the hooting of horns. He preserved clearly his sense of the identity of different objects, and their differences. When a party worked all things, all sounds merged into one. He looked at an old lady with a wedge- shaped stone-coloured face sitting ensconced on a sofa. He glanced at Kitty’s portrait by a fashionable portrait painter as he chatted, standing first on this foot, then on that, to the grizzled man with the bloodhound eyes and the urbane manner whom Kitty had married instead of Edward. Then she came up and introduced him to a girl all in white who was standing alone with her hand on the back of a chair.

“Miss Ann Hillier,” she said. “My cousin, Captain Pargiter.”

She stood for a moment beside them as if to facilitate their introduction. But she was a little stiff always; she did nothing but flick her fan up and down.

“Been to the races, Kitty?” Martin said, because he knew that she hated racing, and he always felt a wish to tease her.

“I? No; I don’t go to races,” she replied rather shortly. She turned away because somebody else had come in — a man in gold lace, with a star.

I should have been better off, Martin thought, reading my book.

“Have you been to the races?” he said aloud to the girl whom he was to take down to dinner. She shook her head. She had white arms; a white dress; and a pearl necklace. Purely virginal, he said to himself; and only an hour ago I was lying stark naked in my bath in Ebury Street, he thought.

“I’ve been watching polo,” she said. He looked down at his shoes, and noticed that they had creases across them; they were old; he had meant to buy a new pair, but had forgotten. That was what he had forgotten, he thought, seeing himself again in the cab, crossing the bridge over the Serpentine.

But they were going down to dinner. He gave her his arm. As they went down the stairs, and he watched the ladies’ dresses in front of them trail from step to step, he thought, What on earth am I going to say to her? Then they crossed the black-and-white squares and went into the dining-room. It was harmoniously shrouded; pictures with hooded bars of light under them shone out; and the dinner table glowed; but no light shone directly on their faces. If this doesn’t work, he thought, looking at the portrait of a nobleman with a crimson cloak and a star that hung luminous in front of him, I’ll never do it again. Then he braced himself to talk to the virginal girl who sat beside him. But he had to reject almost everything that occurred to him — she was so young.

“I’ve thought of three subjects to talk about,” he began straight off, without thinking how the sentence was to end. “Racing; the Russian ballet; and”— he hesitated for a moment —“Ireland. Which interests you?” He unfolded his napkin.

“Please,” she said, bending slightly towards him, “say that again.”

He laughed. She had a charming way of putting her head on one side and bending towards him.

“Don’t let’s talk of any of them,” he said. “Let’s talk of something interesting. Do you enjoy parties?” he asked h............