Spring--with a precipitancy and extravagance that seems
to be--to own peculiar quality in London--had leapt upon the streets.
The Embankment was bathed in the evening glow. Clouds, like bales of golden
wool, sailed down a sky so faintly blue that the white light of a departed
sun seemed to glow behind it. The lamps were crocus-coloured against black
barges that might have been loaded with yellow primroses so did they hint,
through their darkness, at the yellow haze around them.
The silence was melodious; the long line of dark houses watched like
prisoners from behind their iron bars. They might expect, it seemed, the
Spring to burst through the flagstones at their feet.
Peter's heart was lightened of all its burden. He shared the glory, the
intoxication of the promise that was on every side of him. On such a night
great ambitions, great ideals, great lovers were created.
He saw Henry Galleon, from behind his window, watching the pageant. He saw
him gaining new life, getting up from his bed of sickness, writing anew
his great masterpieces. And he saw himself, Peter Westcott, learning at
last from the Master the rule and discipline of life. All the muddle, the
confusion of this lazy year should be healed. He and Clare should see
with the same eyes. She should understand his need for work, he should
understand her need for help.
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