8 ANGEL PAVEMENT

the glory of Booth's Gin, and further along, a stabbing
gleam of crimson finally spelt itself into Sandeman's
Port. Mr. Golspie regarded both these writings on the
wall with admiration and sympathy. The sight of
London Bridge itself too pleased him now, for all the
buses had turned on their lights and were streaming
across like a flood of molten gold. They brought another
stream of pleasant images into Mr. Golspie's mind, a
bright if broken pageant of convivial London: double
whiskies in crimson-shaded bars; smoking hot steaks
and chops and a white cloth on a little corner table; the
glitter and velvet of the music-halls; knowing gossip,
the fine reek of Havanas, round a club fgnder and fat
leather chairs; pretty girls, a bit stiff perhaps (though
not as stiff as they used to be) but very pretty and not
so deep as the foreign ones, coming out of shops and
offices, with evenings to spend and not much else: he
saw it all and he liked the look of it. There was a size,
a richness, about London. You could find anything or
anybody you wanted in it, and you could also hide in it.
He had been a fool to stay away so long. But, anyhow,
here he was. He took a long and wide and exultant look
at the place.

Dinner that night was very good indeed, the best the
boat had given him. Mr. Golspie and the captain shared
it with the chief engineer, who came beaming and
shining from the depths, and the first mate, usually a
very wooden fellow, for ever brooding over some mys-
terious domestic tragedy in Riga, but now for once
gigantically social and cheerful The steward, the one
with the cropped head and gold tooth, lavished his all
upon them. Bottles that had not been emptied before
were emptied now, together with some that were pro-