The grey sky overhead between the house-tops, the cold wind
round every street-corner, the sad faces of the men and women on the
pavements, combined to create an atmosphere of ineloquent misery.
Eustace was sensitive to impressions, and in spite of a
half-conscious effort to remain a dispassionate spectator of the
world's melancholy, he felt the chill of the aimless day creeping
over his spirit. Why was there no sun, no warmth, no laughter on the
earth? What had become of all the children who keep laughter like a
mask on the faces of disillusioned men? The wind blew down
Southampton Street, and chilled Eustace to a shiver that passed away
in a shudder of disgust at the sombre colour of life. A windy Sunday
in London before the lamps are lit, tempts a man to believe in the
nobility of work.
At the corner by Charing Cross Telegraph Office a man thrust a
handbill under his eyes, but he shook his head impatiently. The
blueness of the fingers that offered him the paper was alone
sufficient to make him disinclined to remove his hands from his
pockets even for an instant. But, the man would not be dismissed so
lightly.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, following him, "you have not looked to
see what my bills are."
"Whatever they are I do not want them."
"That's where you are wrong, sir," the man said earnestly. "You will
never find life interesting if you do not lie in wait for the
unexpected. As a matter of fact, I believe that my bill contains
exactly what you do want.
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