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<31.>3 <1ONCE>1 in a way, perhaps as often as every eighteen months, an invitation to Sunday afternoon tea at the Ufford would arrive on a postcard addressed in Uncle Giles's neat, con- stricted handwriting. This private hotel in Bayswater, where he stayed during comparatively rare visits to London, occupied two corner houses in a latent, almost impenetrable region west of the Queen's Road. Not only the battleship- grey colour, but also something at once angular and top- heavy about the block's configuration as a whole, suggested a large vessel moored in the street. Even within, at least on the ground floor, the Ufford conveyed some reminder of life at sea, though certainly of no luxuriously equipped liner; at best one of those superannuated schooners of Conrad's novels, perhaps decorated years before as a rich man's yacht, now tarnished by the years and reduced to ignoble uses like traffic in tourists, pilgrims, or even illegal immigrants; per- vaded--to borrow an a . . .
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change of direction is for some reason often foreshadowed by such colourless patches of time. @Along Piccadilly a north wind was blowing down the side streets, roaring hoarsely for a minute or two at a time, then dropping suddenly into silence; then again, after a brief pause, beginning to roar once more, as if perpetually raging against the inconsistency of human conduct. The arches of the portico gave some shelter from this hurricane, at the same time forming a sort of ante- chamber leading on one side, through lighted glass, into another, milder country, where struggle against the forces of nature was at least less explicit than on the pavements. Outside was the northern winter; here among the palms the climate was almost tropical. @Although a Saturday evening, the place was crowded. A suggestion of life in warmer cities, far away from London, was increased by the presence of a large party of South Americans camped out not far from where I found a seat at one of th . . .
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newspapers, envelopes and bottles that littered the table; coming at last to a large portfolio from which he took a pencil drawing. The picture was of a girl's head. She looked about twenty. The features, suggested rather than outlined, made her seem uncertain of herself, perhaps on the defensive. Her hair was untidy. There was an air of self- conscious rebellion. Something about the portrait struck me as familiar. @'What is her name?' @'I don't know.' @'Why not?' @'She won't tell me.' @'How very secretive.' @'That's what I think.' @'How often has she been here?' @'Two or three times.' @I examined the drawing again. @'I've met her.' @'Who is she?' @'I'm trying to remember.' @'Have a good think,' said Barnby, sighing. 'I like to clear these matters up.' @But for the moment I was unable to recall the girl's name. I had the impression our acquaintance had been slight, and was of a year or two earlier. There had been something absurd, or laughable, in the backgroun . . .
