PROLOGU E 7

and still softly shining in the darkening air, a ball and a
cross. It was the very top of St. Paul's, seen above the
roof of Cannon Street Station. Mr, Golspie recognised
it with pleasure, and even half sung, half hummed, the
line of a song that came back to him, something about
"St. Paul's with its grand old Dome." Good luck to St.
Paul's! It did not challenge him: it was simply there,
keeping an eye on everything but interfering with no-
body. And somehow this glimpse of St. Paul's suddenly
made him realise that this was the genuine old monster,
London. He felt the whole mass of it, spouting and
fuming and roaring away. He realised something else
too, namely, the fact that he was still wearing his old
brown slippers, the ones that Hortensia had given him.
He had arrived, had crept right into the very heart of
London, wearing his old brown slippers. He had slipped
two hundred and fifty cigars past their noses and had not
even changed into his shoes. James Golspie was survey-
ing London in his slippers, and London was not know-
ing, not caring—just yet. These thoughts gave him
enormous pleasure, bringing with them a fine feeling of
cunning and strength: he could have shaken hands with
himself; if there had been a mirror handy he would
probably have exchanged a wink with his reflection.

He walked round the deck. Lights were flickering on
along the wharf, immediately giving the unlit entrances
a sombre air of mystery. A few men down there were
heaving and shouting, but there was little to see. Mr.
Golspie continued his walk, then stopped to look across
and over London Bridge at the near water front, the
south bank. Such lighting as there was on this side waa
very ga^. High up on the first building past the bridge,
coloured lights revolved about an illuminated bottle, tc