“Dear me!” he said. Such pretty manners, she thought. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. She would just walk out of the house and go. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. There was no response. She often found herself absorbed by watching the tall grass undulate from the cave’s central doorway as solitary hunters prowled for buffalo and stag on the plain.
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