CHAPTER XI
ALL KINDS OF FOG IN THE CHARING CROSS ROAD
I
TOWARDS the middle of the dim afternoon as the first straight pale houses began to close in upon the train, a lady and gentleman on the opposite side to Peter were discovered by him, as he awoke from a long sleep, to be talking:
“Well, my dear Lucy, how we are ever to get on if you want to do these absurd things I don't know. In London one must do as London does. In the country of course . . .”
He was short, breathless and a little bald. The lady was young and very upset.
“But, Henry, what does it matter?”
“What does it matter? My dear Lucy, in London everything matters—”
She was excited. “In Kensington perhaps, but in London—”
“Allow me, my dear Lucy, to decide for you. When you are my age—”
Peter went to sleep again.
II
The vast iron-girdled station was very dark and Mr. Zanti explained that this was because, outside, there was a Fog—
“The Fog,” he added, as though it had been a huge and ferocious animal, “is very yellow and has eaten up London. It will take us a very long time to find our home.”
To Peter, short and square, in his rough suit shouldering his bag, this was all as the infernal regions. The vast place towered high, into misty distances above him. Trains, like huge beasts, stretched their limbs into infinity; screams, piercing and angry, broke suddenly the voices and busy
