Although Mrs. Ambrose stood quite still, much longer than is natural, the little boys let her be.  Some one is always looking into the river near Waterloo Bridge; a couple will stand there talking for half an hour on a fine afternoon; most people, walking for pleasure, contemplate for three minutes; when, having compared the occasion with other occasions, or made some sentence, they pass on.  Sometimes the flats and churches and hotels of Westminster are like the outlines of Constantinople in a mist; sometimes the river is an opulent purple, sometimes mud-coloured, sometimes sparkling blue like the sea.  It is always worth while to look down and see what is happening.  But this lady looked neither up nor down; the only thing she had seen, since she stood there, was a circular iridescent patch slowly floating past with a straw in the middle of it.  The straw and the patch swam again and again behind the tremulous medium of a great welling tear, and the tear rose and fell and dropped into the river.  Then there struck close upon her ears—­

     Lars Porsena of Clusium
     By the nine Gods he swore—­

and then more faintly, as if the speaker had passed her on his walk—­

     That the Great House of Tarquin
     Should suffer wrong no more.

Yes, she knew she must go back to all that, but at present she must weep.  Screening her face she sobbed more steadily than she had yet done, her shoulders rising and falling with great regularity.  It was this figure that her husband saw when, having reached the polished Sphinx, having entangled himself with a man selling picture postcards, he turned; the stanza instantly stopped.  He came up to her, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, “Dearest.”  His voice was supplicating.  But she shut her face away from him, as much as to say, “You can’t possibly understand.”

As he did not leave her, however, she had to wipe her eyes, and to raise them to the level of the factory chimneys on the other bank.  She saw also the arches of Waterloo Bridge and the carts moving across them, like the line of animals in a shooting gallery.  They were seen blankly, but to see anything was of course to end her weeping and begin to walk.

“I would rather walk,” she said, her husband having hailed a cab already occupied by two city men.

The fixity of her mood was broken by the action of walking.  The shooting motor cars, more like spiders in the moon than terrestrial objects, the thundering drays, the jingling hansoms, and little black broughams, made her think of the world she lived in.  Somewhere up there above the pinnacles where the smoke rose in a pointed hill, her children were now asking for her, and getting a soothing reply.  As for the mass of streets, squares, and public buildings which parted them, she only felt at this moment how little London had done to make her love it, although thirty of her forty years had been spent in a street.