I was driving to the Albany--just the sort of place where a
penniless adventurer would live. And London knew all this--and scoffed
at me in stony heartlessness. The only object that gave me the slightest
sympathy was Nelson on top of his column. He seemed to say, "After all,
you _can't_ feel such a fool and so much out in the cold as I do up
here."
At Piccadilly Circus I found the same atmosphere of hostility. My cab
was blocked in the theatre-going tide, and in neighbouring vehicles
I had glimpses of fair faces above soft wraps and the profiles of
moustached young men in white ties. They assumed an aggravating air of
ownership of the blazing thoroughfare, the only gay and joyous spot
in London. I, too, had owned it once, but now I felt an alien; and the
whole spirit of Piccadilly Circus rammed the sentiment home--I was an
alien and an undesirable alien. I felt even more lost and friendless as
I entered the long, cold arcade (known as the Ropewalk) of the Albany.
I found my sister Agatha waiting for me in the library.
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