As the streets that lead from the Strand to the Embankment are very narrow, itis better not to walk down them arm-in-arm. If you persist, lawyers’clerks will have to make flying leaps into the mud; young lady typists willhave to fidget behind you. In the streets of London where beauty goesunregarded, eccentricity must pay the penalty, and it is better not to be verytall, to wear a long blue cloak, or to beat the air with your left hand.
One afternoon in the beginning of October when the traffic was becoming brisk atall man strode along the edge of the pavement with a lady on his arm. Angryglances struck upon their backs. The small, agitated figures—for incomparison with this couple most people looked small—decorated withfountain pens, and burdened with despatch-boxes, had appointments to keep, anddrew a weekly salary, so that there was some reason for the unfriendly starewhich was bestowed upon Mr. Ambrose’s height and upon Mrs.Ambrose’s cloak. But some enchantment had put both man and woman beyondthe reach of malice and unpopularity. In his case one might guess from themoving lips that it was thought; and in hers from the eyes fixed stonilystraight in front of her at a level above the eyes of most that it was sorrow.It was only by scorning all she met that she kept herself from tears, and thefriction of people brushing past her was evidently painful. After watching thetraffic on the Embankment for a minute or two with a stoical gaze she twitchedher husband’s sleeve, and they crossed between the swift discharge ofmotor cars. When they were safe on the furth