It was January. Snow was falling; snow had fallen all day. The sky spread like a grey goose’s wing from which feathers were falling all over England. The sky was nothing but a flurry of falling flakes¹. Lanes were levelled; hollows filled; the snow clogged² the streams; obscured windows, and lay wedged against doors. There was a faint murmur³ in the air, a slight crepitation, as if the air itself were turning to snow; otherwise all was silent, save when a sheep coughed, snow flopped⁴ from a branch, or slipped in an avalanche⁵ down some roof in London. Now and again a shaft⁶ of light spread slowly across the sky as a car drove through the muffled⁷ roads. But as the night wore on, snow covered the wheel ruts; softened⁸ to nothingness the marks of the traffic, and coated monuments, palaces and statues with a thick vestment of snow.

It was still snowing when the young man came from the House Agents to see over Abercorn Terrace. The snow cast a hard white glare upon the walls of the bathroom, showed up the cracks on the enamel⁹ bath, and the stains on the wall. Eleanor stood looking out of the window. The trees in the back garden were heavily lined with snow; all the roofs were softly moulded with snow; it was still falling. She turned. The young man turned too. The light was unbecoming to them both, yet the snow — she saw it through the window at the end of the passage — was beautiful, falling.

Mr Grice turned to her as they went downstairs,

“The fact is, our clients expect more lavatory¹⁰ accommodation nowadays,” he said, stopping outside a bedroom door.

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