she met that she kept herself from tears, and the friction of people
brushing past her was evidently painful. After watching the traffic on
the Embankment for a minute or two with a stoical gaze she twitched her
husband's sleeve, and they crossed between the swift discharge of motor
cars. When they were safe on the further side, she gently withdrew her
arm from his, allowing her mouth at the same time to relax, to tremble;
then tears rolled down, and leaning her elbows on the balustrade, she
shielded her face from the curious. Mr. Ambrose attempted consolation;
he patted her shoulder; but she showed no signs of admitting him, and
feeling it awkward to stand beside a grief that was greater than his, he
crossed his arms behind him, and took a turn along the pavement.

The embankment juts out in angles here and there, like pulpits; instead
of preachers, however, small boys occupy them, dangling string, dropping
pebbles, or launching wads of paper for a cruise. With their sharp eye
for eccentricity, they were inclined to think Mr. Ambrose awful; but
the quickest witted cried "Bluebeard!" as he passed. In case they should
proceed to tease his wife, Mr. Ambrose flourished his stick at them,
upon which they decided that he was grotesque merely, and four instead
of one cried "Bluebeard!" in chorus.

Although Mrs. Ambrose stood quite still, much longer than is natural,
the little boys let her be. Some one is always looking into the river
near Waterloo Bridge; a couple will stand there talking for half an hour
on a fine afternoon; most people, walking for pleasure, contemplate for
three minutes; when, having compared the occasion with other occasions,
or made some sentence, they pass on. Sometimes the flats and churches
and hotels of Westminster are like the outlines of Constantinople in a
mist; sometimes the river is an opulent purple, sometimes mud-coloured,
sometimes sparkling blue like the sea. It is always worth while to look