V
THE GATHERING STORM
It was evening, and the sweet cool dusk brought many tired Londoners to the Mall. From the Victoria Monument to Trafalgar Square extended that old avenue where garlands of lamps festooned the trees, fountains sprayed liquid air to cool the gardens, cafés set out their tables and seats upon the gravel, and a military band provided music. At one of the tables a journeyman carpenter was at ease with ale and a pipe; and looking about for a seat came a grey old soldier, an Anglo-Indian colonel, lately retired. When the artisan made room and found a chair, the old man gruffly thanked him and sat down.
"A warm night, sir?"
"Ugh!" grunted the Colonel. "Where's that confounded waiter? Warm! Would you like a frost?"
"Big crowd to-night, sir," ventured the carpenter.
"Disgusting babel. Ur-r-r! In my time one came here for peace and quiet. I hate mixed crowds."
"The modern democracy," observed the carpenter, his eyes twinkling amusement. "In the old days my father could not have sat here chattering sociably with your father, sir."
"I didn't come here to jabber, curse you, sir!" said the Colonel. "Surely," he leaned forward, "I ought to know that old frump with the cloak——
"Lord Fortescue?"