He shuffles on.

No one stands still.

It seems as if we marched to the sound of music; perhaps the wind and the river; perhaps these same drums and trumpets--the ecstasy and hubbub of the soul.

Why, even the unhappy laugh, and the policeman, far from judging the drunk man, surveys him humorously, and the little boys scamper back again, and the clerk from Somerset House has nothing but tolerance for him, and the man who is reading half a page of Lothair at the bookstall muses charitably, with his eyes off the print, and the girl hesitates at the crossing and turns on him the bright yet vague glance of the young.
Bright yet vague.

She is perhaps twenty-two.