He walked. To the Marble Arch, and thence down Park Lane, where was little movement. The not unpleasing rain still seemed to encounter certain difficulties in reaching the ground. He chose the Park side of the road, and walked by the railings. He peered into the darkness of the Park, and it displeased him. A closed and shuttered Park by night, with wide and empty roads laid across it like the arms of a sprawling skeleton, is a most abominable thing; there is no beauty in it thus, no mystery, and sensitive eyes must reject its dark and dank attractions through the railings. He walked. “Fight on all occasions.” Now who the deuce had said that? Ah, yes, d’Artagnan’s father to d’Artagnan. Wise old man, ... for if you fight on “all occasions” you simply must, by the laws of chance, win now and then.
He walked. To the corner of Hamilton Place and Piccadilly, and there stayed a while, for it is a romantic station by night. The vague and careless rain looked like threads of gossamer silver passing across the light of the arc-lamps. Standing here, at the corner of Hamilton Place, Piccadilly grows wide to the eye and sweeps to far distances: here, by night, there are palaces all about you, there are spacious places before you, the Green Park is a mysterious valley, and somewhere in the spaciousness is a horseman on a horse and a chariot on a triumphal arch, an arch that is much more impressive by night than in that festive daylight when under its squat curve pass the automata of royalty. Here, at the corner of Hamilton Place, Piccadilly ceases to be Piccadilly and becomes something more than Hyde Park Corner: surely it becomes a wide and elegant gesture, the magnificent gesture of Babylon towards the barbaric extremities of its tributaries. Here motor-cars, that but a moment before looked large and luxurious on the thin spine of Piccadilly, dwindle to small and flying atoms, hurling themselves headlong into the fat bosom of Belgrave Square, straight ahead to the narrow rectitudes of Brompton, or still farther to the very frontiers of the town, where is said to lie Holland Park and beyond which is Hammersmith and a great darkness.
He walked. Down the slope of Piccadilly, that slight downward slope of Piccadilly as it gathers strength to hunch itself up for its onslaught on the town. And Ivor saw a much younger man, so gay, so careless, in a swift and shining car—“that Camelot car, Magdalen!”—racing down and up the switchback of Piccadilly by night, on the wings of love from Camelot. Ah ... les tendresses! Admirable Magdalen! “You have decorated my life,” he had cried to her—so cheekily! But so she had—and so Virginia had too, and almost destroyed it as well! While he had utterly destroyed Virginia....
Down Street. He would walk up Down Street, through Shepherds’ Market, and so home to Upper Brook Street. And he began the ascent, on the side opposite to the Tube station. A clock gave one distant knell—one o’clock of the 2nd of May. The puny rain held.
The Tube station was closed, and shutters were laid across its face. Now by Down Street Tube Station is a passage-way, no one knows why or whither; whether or not this passage-way belongs to the Tube station has never been established, nor if it does for what purpose, nor if it does not for what purpose; in fact, nothing is known about this passage-way but that it looks a cavernous place. But now this passage-way was made remarkable to a passing man by the fact that a woman was standing within it; there, just within the passage-way, Ivor saw a woman. He saw her as he passed up on the opposite side: her face and head were in the darkness of the cavernous place, but the light of the adjacent lamp fell brightly on the lower part of her cloak; and this cloak looked gray and soft and shining with a furry shine, it looked like a cloak made of delicious shillings, and Ivor thought to himself: “If that isn’t chinchilla I’d like to know what is.”
Beyond that passing glimpse he had, immediately, no other, for he walked on up Down Street. But the chinchilla coat waved before his mind. “It’s all very odd,” he thought. “What’s a chinchilla coat doing out alone at this time of night? It’s not decent.” He had walked far enough to be able, decently, to turn and look again. The soft gleam of the chinchilla was still there: more than ever like a delicious shilling wantonly awaiting a beggar’s grasp. “Give her five minutes,” thought Ivor, “and if her man hasn’t turned up by then I must see about her. Wandering about in a chinchilla coat on a night like this! I will offer her my friendship for five minutes, stressing the word friendship so that she will know I am a man without casual desires. Ha!” He felt, at this moment, very gay; lighting a cigarette, he walked slowly as far as Hertford Street; and slowly back, down the hill of Down Street. The rain was at last managing to reach the ground. “Let it,” thought Ivor. He felt gay. The hours of his life stretched before him like a desert, but he felt gay; the days and years of his life stretched before him like a wilderness of stones, but he felt gay; and he didn’t know why....
Quickly Ivor approached, on the opposite side, the soft and furry gleam of the chinchilla coat. He laughed at himself. “What a dog I am!” he thought. “If,” he thought, “I were a poet, I would write a poem about a lonely lady in a chinchilla coat. Not being a poet, I will speak to her instead. Thus.”
And he crossed the road with a swing. He didn’t care.... The face of the chinchilla was not visible, as he approached. Above the face was a suggestion of hair. A tall figure, taller than Virginia—very tall. But he wasn’t afraid. He didn’t care.... And with his one arm he swept off his hat.
“Can I,” he pleaded, “be of any use at all?”
“You can get me a taxi,” came voice of chinchilla, swift and low.