London
with her towers, her roofs and chimneys--smoke and mist and haze weaving a
web--and then beneath it, humming, buzzing, turning, all the lives, all the
comedies, all the tragedies--Kings and princes, guttersnipes and duchesses,
politicians and newsboys, criminals and saints--
Waiting, that golden top, for some hand to set it humming.
In that moment Peter Westcott, aged twenty-nine, with a book just behind
him that had been counted on every side the most dismal of failures, saw
himself the English Balzac, saw London open like a book at his feet, saw
heaven and all its glories... himself the one and only begetter of a
thousand masterpieces!
But the sun set--the towers and roofs and chimneys were coldly grey, a
ragged wind rose through the branches of the orchard, dark clouds hid the
risen moon, newsboys were crying a murder in Whitechapel.
"I hate this house," Peter said, turning away from the window, into a room
crowded now with dusk.
III
It was the first of May, and the day before Clare's birthday. It was one of
the most beautiful days of the year, with a hint of summer in its light and
shadow, a shimmer of golden sun shaking through the trees in the orchard,
flung from there on to the windows of The Roundabout, to dance in twisting
lines along the floors and across the walls.
All doors and windows seemed to be open; the scent of flowers--a prophecy
of pinks and roses where as yet there were none--flooded the little Chelsea
streets.
Pages:
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595