If these ladies and gentlemen were put into that pit into which he had been looking, would a single one of them emerge again?
But the effort of picturing them there was too much for him; it was too far--too ridiculously far.
One particular couple, a large; fine man and wife, who, in the midst of all the dirt and rumbling hurry, the gloomy, ludicrous, and desperately jovial streets, walked side by side in well-bred silence, had evidently bought some article which pleased them.

There was nothing offensive in their manner; they seemed quite unconcerned at the passing of the other people.

The man had that fine solidity of shoulder and of waist, the glossy self-possession that belongs to those with horses, guns, and dressing-bags.

The wife, her chin comfortably settled in her fur, kept her grey eyes on the ground, and, when she spoke, her even and unruffled voice reached Shelton's ears above all the whirring of the traffic.
It was leisurely precise, as if it had never hurried, had never been exhausted, or passionate, or afraid.

Their talk, like that of many dozens of fine couples invading London from their country places, was of where to dine, what theatre they should go to, whom they had seen, what they should buy.