As he leaned upon the Embankment parapet the wonder did not fade, but
rather increased. The trams, one after another, floated loftily over the
bridge. They went like great burning bees in an endless file into a
hive, past those which were drifting dreamily out, while below, on the
black, distorted water, golden serpents flashed and twisted to and fro.
'Ah!' said Siegmund to himself; 'it is far too wonderful for me. Here,
as well as by the sea, the night is gorgeous and uncouth. Whatever
happens, the world is wonderful.' So he went on amid all the vast miracle of movement in the city night,
the swirling of water to the sea, the gradual sweep of the stars, the
floating of many lofty, luminous cars through the bridged darkness, like
an army of angels filing past on one of God's campaigns, the purring
haste of the taxis, the slightly dancing shadows of people. Siegmund
went on slowly, like a slow bullet winging into the heart of life. He
did not lose this sense of wonder, not in the train, nor as he walked
home in the moonless dark.
When he closed the door behind him and hung up his hat he frowned. He
did not think definitely of anything, but his frown meant to him: 'Now
for the beginning of Hell!' He went towards the dining-room, where the light was, and the uneasy
murmur. The clock, with its deprecating, suave chime, was striking ten,
Siegmund opened the door of the room. Beatrice was sewing, and did not
raise her head. Frank, a tall, thin lad of eighteen, was bent over a
book. He did not look up. Vera had her fingers thrust in among her hair,
and continued to read the magazine that lay on the table before her.
Siegmund looked at them all. They gave no sign to show they were aware
of his entry; there was only that unnatural tenseness of people who
cover their agitation. He glanced round to see where he should go. His
wicker arm-chair remained by the fireplace; his slippers were standing
under the sideboard, as he had left them. Siegmund sat down in the
creaking chair; he began to feel sick and tired.
'I suppose the children are in bed,' he said.
His wife sewed on as if she had not heard him; his daughter noisily
turned over a leaf and continued to read, as if she were pleasantly
interested and had known no interruption. Siegmund waited, with his
slipper dangling from his hand, looking from one to another.
'They've been gone two hours,' said Frank at last, still without raising
his eyes from his book. His tone was contemptuous, his voice was
jarring, not yet having developed a man's fullness.