Once the mental shock of moving unsupported through the air was over, his sensations ceased to be unpleasant, became very speedily pleasurable.  He had been warned of air sickness.  But he found the pulsating movement of the monoplane as it drove up the faint south-west breeze was very little in excess of the pitching of a boat head on to broad rollers in a moderate gale, and he was constitutionally a good sailor.  And the keenness of the more rarefied air into which they ascended produced a sense of lightness and exhilaration.  He looked up and saw the blue sky above fretted with cirrus clouds.  His eye came cautiously down through the ribs and bars to a shining flight of white birds that hung in the lower sky.  For a space he watched these.  Then going lower and less apprehensively, he saw the slender figure of the Wind-Vane keeper’s crow’s nest shining golden in the sunlight and growing smaller every moment.  As his eye fell with more confidence now, there came a blue line of hills, and then London, already to leeward, an intricate space of roofing.  Its near edge came sharp and clear, and banished his last apprehensions in a shock of surprise.  For the boundary of London was like a wall, like a cliff, a steep fall of three or four hundred feet, a frontage broken only by terraces here and there, a complex decorative facade.

That gradual passage of town into country through an extensive sponge of suburbs, which was so characteristic a feature of the great cities of the nineteenth century, existed no longer.  Nothing remained of it here but a waste of ruins, variegated and dense with thickets of the heterogeneous growths that had once adorned the gardens of the belt, interspersed among levelled brown patches of sown ground, and verdant stretches of winter greens.  The latter even spread among the vestiges of houses.  But for the most part the reefs and skerries of ruins, the wreckage of suburban villas, stood among their streets and roads, queer islands amidst the levelled expanses of green and brown, abandoned indeed by the inhabitants years since, but too substantial, it seemed, to be cleared out of the way of the wholesale horticultural mechanisms of the time.

The vegetation of this waste undulated and frothed amidst the countless cells of crumbling house walls, and broke along the foot of the city wall in a surf of bramble and holly and ivy and teazle and tall grasses.  Here and there gaudy pleasure palaces towered amidst the puny remains of Victorian times, and cable ways slanted to them from the city.  That winter day they seemed deserted.  Deserted, too, were the artificial gardens among the ruins.  The city limits were indeed as sharply defined as in the ancient days when the gates were shut at nightfall and the robber foeman prowled to the very walls.  A huge semi-circular throat poured out a vigorous traffic upon the Eadhamite Bath Road.  So the first prospect of the world beyond the city flashed on Graham, and dwindled.  And when at last he could look vertically downward again, he saw below him the vegetable fields of the Thames valley—­innumerable minute oblongs of ruddy brown, intersected by shining threads, the sewage ditches.