She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. The spirit of disaffection was busy throughout the kingdom. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige. The helicopter lifted from her hand and hovered in the air. ‘Have no fear,’ he uttered soothingly, reaching out to pat her free hand.
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