Down the centre of the street Thyme saw a brewer's dray creeping its way due south under the sun. Three horses drew it, with braided tails and beribboned manes, the brass glittering on their harness. High up, like a god, sat the drayman, his little slits of eyes above huge red cheeks fixed immovably on his horses' crests. Behind him, with slow, unceasing crunch, the dray rolled, piled up with hogsheads, whereon the drayman's mate lay sleeping. Like the slumbrous image of some mighty unrelenting Power, it passed, proud that its monstrous bulk contained all the joy and blessing those shadows on the pavement had ever known.
The two young people emerged on to the high road running east and west.
“Cross here,” said Martin, “and cut down into Kensington. Nothing more of interest now till we get to Hound Street. Purceys and Purceys all round about this part.”
Thyme shook herself.
“O Martin, let's go down a road where there's some air. I feel so dirty.” She put her hand up to her chest.
“There's one here,” said Martin.
They turned to the left into a road that had many trees. Now that she could breathe and look about her, Thyme once more held her head erect and began to swing her arms.
“Martin, something must be done!”
The young doctor did not reply; his face still wore its pale, sarcastic, observant look. He gave her arm a squeeze with a half-contemptuous smile.