each other ever since that confession."

Mr. Ludlow stared sorrowfully into the remains of a glass of juniper
juice.

"I'll never marry again," he moaned. "I ain't the kind that makes a good
husband. A good husband is a man who is just an ordinary liar. And me?
Well, I'm an auctioneer."



FOG PATTERNS


The fog tiptoes into the streets. It walks like a great cat through the
air and slowly devours the city.

The office buildings vanish, leaving behind thin pencil lines and smoke
blurs. The pavements become isolated, low-roofed corridors. Overhead the
electric signs whisper enigmatically and the window lights dissolve.

The fog thickens till the city disappears. High up, where the mists thin
into a dark, sulphurous glow, roof bubbles float. The great cat's work is
done. It stands balancing itself on the heads of people and arches its
back against the vanished buildings.

* * * * *

I walk along thinking about the way the streets look and arranging
adjectives in my mind. In the heavy mist people appear detached. They no