She ran to the window and looked out. The sky was grey, the street was foggy, a dismal organ-grinder was standing opposite the door, a beggar and a man who sold matches were quarrelling at the edge of the pavement on whose greasy black surface people hurried along, hastening to get to the shelter of their houses.
“Oh, look at their faces, their horrible faces!” she cried. “What’s the matter with them all?”
“They’re poor people, that’s all,” said Robert.
“But it’s not all! They’re ill, they’re unhappy, they’re wicked! Oh, do stop it, there’s dear children. It’s very, very clever. Some sort of magic-lantern trick, I suppose, like I’ve read of. But do stop it. Oh! their poor, tired, miserable, wicked faces!”
The tears were in her eyes. Anthea signed to Jane. The arch grew, they spoke the words, and pushed the lady through it into her own time and place, where London is clean and beautiful, and the Thames runs clear and bright, and the green trees grow, and no one is afraid, or anxious, or in a hurry.
There was a silence. Then—
“I’m glad we went,” said Anthea, with a deep breath.
“I’ll never throw paper about again as long as I live,” said Robert.
“Mother always told us not to,” said Jane.
“I would like to take up the Duties of Citizenship for a special subject,” said Cyril. “I wonder if Father could put me through it. I shall ask him when he comes home.”