And Dick Graves, being a little drunk, very faithful, and very simple-minded, told her that he thought Jacob the greatest man he had ever known.  And down they sat cross-legged upon cushions and talked about Jacob, and Helen’s voice trembled, for they both seemed heroes to her, and the friendship between them so much more beautiful than women’s friendships.  Anthony Pollett now asked her to dance, and as she danced she looked at them, over her shoulder, standing at the table, drinking together.

The magnificent world—­the live, sane, vigorous world ....  These words refer to the stretch of wood pavement between Hammersmith and Holborn in January between two and three in the morning.  That was the ground beneath Jacob’s feet.  It was healthy and magnificent because one room, above a mews, somewhere near the river, contained fifty excited, talkative, friendly people.  And then to stride over the pavement (there was scarcely a cab or policeman in sight) is of itself exhilarating.  The long loop of Piccadilly, diamond-stitched, shows to best advantage when it is empty.  A young man has nothing to fear.  On the contrary, though he may not have said anything brilliant, he feels pretty confident he can hold his own.  He was pleased to have met Mangin; he admired the young woman on the floor; he liked them all; he liked that sort of thing.  In short, all the drums and trumpets were sounding.  The street scavengers were the only people about at the moment.  It is scarcely necessary to say how well-disposed Jacob felt towards them; how it pleased him to let himself in with his latch-key at his own door; how he seemed to bring back with him into the empty room ten or eleven people whom he had not known when he set out; how he looked about for something to read, and found it, and never read it, and fell asleep.

Indeed, drums and trumpets is no phrase.  Indeed, Piccadilly and Holborn, and the empty sitting-room and the sitting-room with fifty people in it are liable at any moment to blow music into the air.  Women perhaps are more excitable than men.  It is seldom that any one says anything about it, and to see the hordes crossing Waterloo Bridge to catch the non-stop to Surbiton one might think that reason impelled them.  No, no.  It is the drums and trumpets.  Only, should you turn aside into one of those little bays on Waterloo Bridge to think the matter over, it will probably seem to you all a muddle—­all a mystery.

They cross the Bridge incessantly.  Sometimes in the midst of carts and omnibuses a lorry will appear with great forest trees chained to it.  Then, perhaps, a mason’s van with newly lettered tombstones recording how some one loved some one who is buried at Putney.  Then the motor car in front jerks forward, and the tombstones pass too quick for you to read more.  All the time the stream of people never ceases passing from the Surrey side to the Strand; from the Strand to the Surrey side.  It seems as if the poor had gone raiding the town, and now trapesed