As the streets
One afternoon
The embankment juts
Although Mrs. Ambrose
that lead
from the Strand
to the Embankment
are very narrow,
it is better not
to walk down them arm-in-arm.
If you persist,
lawyers' clerks
will have to make
flying leaps into the mud;
young lady typists
will have
to fidget behind you.
In the streets of London
where beauty goes unregarded,
eccentricity must pay the penalty,
and it is
better not
to be very tall,
to wear
a long blue cloak,
or to beat the air
with your left hand.
in the beginning of October
when the traffic
was becoming brisk
a tall man
strode along the edge
of the pavement
with a lady
on his arm.
Angry glances
struck upon their backs.
The small,
agitated figures
--for in comparison
with this couple most people
looked small--
decorated with fountain pens,
and burdened with despatch-boxes,
had appointments to keep,
and drew a weekly salary,
so that
there was some reason
for the unfriendly stare
which was
bestowed upon Mr. Ambrose's
height and
upon Mrs. Ambrose's cloak.
But some enchantment
had put
both man and woman
beyond the reach
of malice and unpopularity.
In his guess one
might guess
from the moving lips
that it was thought;
and in hers
from the eyes
fixed stonily straight
in front of her
at a level
above the eyes of most
that it was sorrow.
It was
only by scorning all
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.
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.
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