everyoneforhundredsofyears,noonehasleftanyadequateaccountofit.ThestreetsofLondonhavetheirmapbutourpassionsareuncharted.Whatareyougoingtomeetifyouturnthiscorner?
"Holbornstraightaheadofyou,"saysthepoliceman.Ah,butwhereareyougoingifinsteadofbrushingpasttheoldmanwiththewhitebeard,thesilvermedal,andthecheapviolin,youlethimgoonwithhisstory,whichendsinaninvitationtostepsomewhere,tohisroom,presumably,offQueen'sSquare,andthereheshowsyouacollectionofbirds'eggsandaletterfromthePrinceofWales'ssecretary,andthis(skippingtheintermediatestages)bringsyouonewinter'sdaytotheEssexcoast,wherethelittleboatmakesofftotheship,andtheshipsailsandyoubeholdontheskylinetheAzoresandtheflamingoesriseandthereyousitonthevergeofthemarshdrinkingrum-punch,anoutcastfromcivilization,foryouhavecommittedacrime,areinfectedwithyellowfeveraslikelyasnot,and—fillinthesketchasyoulike.AsfrequentasstreetcornersinHolbornarethesechasmsinthecontinuityofourways.Yetwekeepstraighton.
RoseShaw,talkinginratheranemotionalmannertoMr.BowleyatMrs.Durrant'seveningpartyafewnightsback,saidthatlifewaswickedbecauseamancalledJimmyrefusedtomarryawomancalled(ifmemoryserves)HelenAitken.
Bothwerebeautiful.Bothwereinanimate.Theovaltea-tableinvariablyseparatedthem,andtheplateofbiscuitswasallheevergaveher.Hebowedsheinclinedherhead.Theydanced.Hedanceddivinely.Theysatinthealcoveneverawordwassaid.Herpillowwaswetwithtears.KindMr.BowleyanddearRoseShawmarvelledanddeplored.BowleyhadroomsintheAlbany.Rosewasre-borneveryeveningpreciselyastheclockstruckeight.Allfourwerecivilization'striumphs,andifyoupersistthatacommandoftheEnglishlanguageispartofourinheritance,onecanonlyreplythatbeautyisalmostalwaysdumb.Malebeautyinassociationwithfemalebeautybreedsintheonlookerasenseoffear.OftenhaveIseenthem—HelenandJimmy—andlikenedthemtoshipsadrift,andfearedformyownlittlecraft.Oragain,haveyoueverwatchedfinecolliedogscouchantattwentyyards'distance?Asshepassedhimhiscuptherewasthatquiveri