Bridgeincessantly.Sometimesinthemidstofcartsandomnibusesalorrywillappearwithgreatforesttreeschainedtoit.Then,perhaps,amason'svanwithnewlyletteredtombstonesrecordinghowsomeonelovedsomeonewhoisburiedatPutney.Thenthemotorcarinfrontjerksforward,andthetombstonespasstooquickforyoutoreadmore.AllthetimethestreamofpeopleneverceasespassingfromtheSurreysidetotheStrandfromtheStrandtotheSurreyside.Itseemsasifthepoorhadgoneraidingthetown,andnowtrapesedbacktotheirownquarters,likebeetlesscurryingtotheirholes,forthatoldwomanfairlyhobblestowardsWaterloo,graspingashinybag,asifshehadbeenoutintothelightandnowmadeoffwithsomescrapedchickenbonestoherhovelunderground.Ontheotherhand,thoughthewindisroughandblowingintheirfaces,thosegirlsthere,stridinghandinhand,shoutingoutasong,seemtofeelneithercoldnorshame.Theyarehatless.Theytriumph.
Thewindhasblownupthewaves.Theriverracesbeneathus,andthemenstandingonthebargeshavetoleanalltheirweightonthetiller.Ablacktarpaulinistieddownoveraswellingloadofgold.Avalanchesofcoalglitterblackly.Asusual,paintersareslungonplanksacrossthegreatriversidehotels,andthehotelwindowshavealreadypointsoflightinthem.OntheothersidethecityiswhiteasifwithageSt.Paul'sswellswhiteabovethefretted,pointed,oroblongbuildingsbesideit.Thecrossaloneshinesrosy-gilt.Butwhatcenturyhavewereached?HasthisprocessionfromtheSurreysidetotheStrandgoneonforever?ThatoldmanhasbeencrossingtheBridgethesesixhundredyears,withtherabbleoflittleboysathisheels,forheisdrunk,orblindwithmisery,andtiedroundwitholdcloutsofclothingsuchaspilgrimsmighthaveworn.Heshuffleson.Noonestandsstill.Itseemsasifwemarchedtothesoundofmusicperhapsthewindandtheriverperhapsthesesamedrumsandtrumpets—theecstasyandhubbubofthesoul.Why,eventheunhappylaugh,andthepoliceman,farfromjudgingthedrunkman,surveyshimhumorously,andthelittleboysscamperbackagain,andtheclerkfromSomersetHousehasnothingbuttoleranceforhim,andthemanwhoisreadinghalfapageofLothairatthebookstallmusescharitably,withhiseyesofftheprint,andthegirlhesitatesatthecrossingandturnsonhimthebrightyetvagueglanceoftheyoung.
Brightyetvague.Sheisperhapstwenty-two.Sheisshabby.Shecrossestheroadandlooksatthedaffodilsandtheredtulipsintheflorist'swindow.Shehesitates,andmakesoffinthedirectionofTempleBar.Shewalksfast,andyetanythingdistractsher.Nowsheseemstosee,andnowtonoticenothing.