“That’s the essence of the problem.”
He led the way back to the Victoria Memorial and stood side by side with Christina Alberta beneath that perfect symbol of the British Empire, the statue of Queen Victoria. They stared down the Mall to the distant Admiralty Arch, and for a moment neither of them said a word. It was a warm and serene October afternoon; the cupolas of Whitehall and Westminster’s two towers and a brown pile of mansions were just visible over the trees on the right, transfigured to beauty by the afternoon glow; the two tall columns of the Duke of York and Nelson rose over the trees and buildings to the left; it was in the pause before the dinner and theatre traffic begins, and only a few taxi-cabs and a car or so emphasized the breadth of the processional roadway. Half a dozen windows in the Admiralty had taken fire already from the sinking sun.
“I suppose,” said Lambone, “he’s gone down there.”
Christina Alberta stood with her arms akimbo and her feet a little apart. “I suppose he has.”
The wide road ran straight to the distant Admiralty Arch. And through that remote little opening was Trafalgar Square and Charing Cross and a radiating tangle of roads and streets spreading out and beyond and further into the twilight blue.
“What will he make for now?”
“Heaven knows. I’m bankrupt. I haven’t an idea.”
Neither spoke for a little while.
“He’s gone,” she said, “just gone,” and that simple and desolating thought filled her mind.
But the thoughts of Paul Lambone were more complex and intricate.