We must wave our hands at the blue hills far away there and go back to London and work. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. She will tell you all the story while I am gone. . How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. ’ ‘A pretty tale. So she built a shrine. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice.
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