tered before
it can be chronicled; as a heart that certainly beats, but with no
pulsation of humanity. It lies beyond everything; Nature, with all
her cruelty, comes nearer to us than do these crowds of men. A friend
explains himself; the earth is explicable--from her we came, and we must
return to her. But who can explain Westminster Bridge Road or Liverpool
Street in the morning--the city inhaling--or the same thoroughfares
in the evening--the city exhaling her exhausted air? We reach in
desperation beyond the fog, beyond the very stars, the voids of the
universe are ransacked to justify the monster, and stamped with a human
face. London is religion's opportunity--not the decorous religion of
theologians, but anthropomorphic, crude. Yes, the continuous flow
would be tolerable if a man of our own sort--not any one pompous or
tearful--were caring for us up in the sky.

The Londoner seldom understands his city until it sweeps him, too, away
from his moorings, and Margaret's eyes were not opened until the lease
of Wickham Place expired. She had always known that it must expire, but
the knowledge only became vivid about nine months before the event.
Then the house was suddenly ringed with pathos. It had seen so much
happiness. Why had it to be swept away? In the streets of the city
she noted for the first time the architecture of hurry and heard the
language of hurry on the mouths of its inhabitants--clipped words,
formless sentences, potted expressions of approval or disgust. Month by
month things were stepping livelier, but to what goal? The population
still rose, but what was the quality of the men born? The particular
millionaire who owned the freehold of Wickham Place, and desired to
erect Babylonian flats upon it--what right had he to stir so large a
portion of the quivering jelly? He was not a fool--she had heard him
expose Socialism--but true insight began just where his intelligence
ended, and one gathered that this was the case with most millionaires.
What right had such men--But Margaret checked herself. That way lies
madness. Thank goodness, she, too, had some money, and could purchase a
new home.

Tibby, now in his second year at Oxford, was down for the Easter
vacation, and Margaret took the opportunity of having a serious talk
with him. Did he at all know where he wanted to live? Tibby didn't
know that he did know. Did he at all know what he wanted to do? He was
equally uncertain, but when pressed remarked