CHAPTER III

A CORNER OF LAMBETH




A working man, one Gilbert Grail, was spending an hour of his
Saturday afternoon in Westminster Abbey. At five o'clock the sky
still pulsed with heat; black shadows were sharp edged upon the
yellow pavement. Between the bridges of Westminster and Lambeth the
river was a colourless gleam; but in the Sanctuary evening had
fallen. Above the cool twilight of the aisles floated a golden mist;
and the echo of a footfall hushed itself among the tombs.

He was a man past youth, but of less than middle age, with meagre
limbs and shoulders, a little bent. His clothing was rough but
decent; his small and white hands gave evidence of occupation which
was not rudely laborious. He had a large head, thickly covered with
dark hair, which, with his moustache and beard, heightened the
wanness of his complexion. A massive forehead, deep-set eyes, thin,
straight nose, large lips constantly drawn inwards, made a
physiognomy impressive rather than pleasing. The cast of thought was
upon it; of thought eager and self-tormenting; the mark of a spirit
ever straining after something unattainable. At moments when he
found satisfaction in reading the legend on some monument his eyes
grew placid and his beetling brows smoothed themselves; but the