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When my part in the morning's work was over, I informed my secretary
that I would go out and take the air till lunch-time.
"If you've nothing better to do," said he, "you might run round to
Eccleston Square and see my mother."
"For any particular reason?"
"She wants to see you. Home for inebriate parrots or something. Gave me
a message for you this morning."
"I'll wait," said I, "on Lady Kynnersley with pleasure."
I went out and walked down the restful covered way of the Albany to
the Piccadilly entrance, and began my taking of the air. It was a soft
November day, full of blue mist, and invested with a dying grace by a
pale sunshine struggling through thin, grey rain-cloud. It was a faded
lady of a day--a lady of waxen cheeks, attired in pearl-grey and
old lace, her dim eyes illumined by a last smile. It gave an air
of unreality to the perspective of tall buildings, and treated with
indulgent irony the passing show of humans--on foot, on omnibuses, in
cabs and motors--turning them into shadow shapes tending no whither.


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