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She had not caught his meaning in the roar of thetraffic. The King of Spains
daughterhe hummed as he turned up Sloane Street, came to visit me. Lets be off,
he said, hustling Sara along the crowded room. Her cheeks were flushed; her
eyes were bright. Yes, she said, rousing herself to answer him. Life had
resumed its ordinary proportions. But she was a little stiff always; she did
nothingbut flick her fan up and down.
Theyre like drops of glass under water,
he thought.
People pressing against him made him stepoff the pavement.
He
looked back at them after he had gone a little distance.
Theres another person
talking to himself, she broke off.
He paused for a moment, looking down at her.
Play further away, said a woman in a white cap.
The road was beaten to a
metallic silver. But the clocks were irregular, as if the saints themselves
weredivided.
She took off hergloves and laid them on a small reddish-brown book
that wasobviously a prayer-book. He looked at another picture; alady in sea
green; the famous Gainsborough. The sun for the first time was almost hot on
his head.
It was a charmingscene, gay, innocent and a trifle ridiculous. She
had nonose; her face was seamed with white patches; there were red rimsfor
nostrils. Coveys of nursemaids pushed perambulators along the paths.
A
middle-aged woman was coming towards them.
That fatman, he explained, who flung
his arm out. His supple Italian face wrinkled all over as he whipped offhis cap
and bowed to her.
The King of Spains daughterhe hummed as he turned up Sloane
Street, came to visit me. No, he thought, biting the stem of his pipe.
And when
I came out, he resumed, there wasSally.
They were running smoothly downthe
incline of Piccadilly. People dont like being looked at, said Sara, when
theyretalking to themselves.
Then the man to whom Martin had spokentouched him
on the shoulder as he went out.
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