Yet they call themselves men.

It is appalling." The day was dying, the western sky all draped with crimson, saffron and rosy curtains: a slight mist over London, purple on the horizon, closer, a mere wash of blue; here and there steeples pierced the thin veil like fingers pointing upward.

On the left the dome of St.Paul's hung like a grey bubble over the city; on the right the twin towers of Westminster with the river and bridge which Wordsworth sang.

Peace and beauty brooding everywhere, and down there lost in the mist the "rat pit" that men call the Courts of Justice.

There they judge their fellows, mistaking indifference for impartiality, as if anyone could judge his fellowman without love, and even with love how far short we all come of that perfect sympathy which is above forgiveness and takes delight in succouring the weak, comforting the broken-hearted.
* * * * * The days went swiftly by and my powerlessness to influence him filled me with self-contempt.