She was surprised that this should be what one such night seemed destined to teach her. These people were better dead. She could feel no pity at all for the beast who snored on her shoulder. She could not consent to justify his becoming what he was. Ill luck, fate, a bad heritage, these were mere empty phrases. She only knew that she felt contaminated, that she loathed these wretched, greasy creatures with an almost vindictive loathing. Her skin felt all of a creep, shrinking from their uncleanness. As to her visions of a regenerated civilisation, her theoretical compassions, what had become of them? Was she not discovering that even her ideals were personal, selective, prejudiced? These people were beyond pity. That was her impression. She found herself driven to utter the cry, “For God’s sake let us clean up the world before we begin to build up fresh ideas. This rubbish ought to be put out of the way, burnt, or buried. What is the use of being sentimental about it?” Pity held aloof. She had a new understanding of Death, and saw him as the great Cleanser, the Furnaceman who threw all the unclean things into his destructor. What fools men were to try and cheat Death of his wholesome due. The children ought to be saved, the really valuable lives fought for; but this gutter stuff ought to be cleaned up and got rid of in grim and decent silence. Eve never expected to sleep, but she slept for two hours, and woke up just before dawn. It was not a comfortable awakening. She felt cold and stiff, and her body ached, and with the return of consciousness came that wholesome horror of her neighbours, a horror that had taught her more than all the sociological essays she could have read in a lifetime. The man’s head was on her shoulder. He still spluttered and blew in his sleep. Eve decided to sit it out; to go through to the bitter end. Moreover, she was curious to see the faces of these people by daylight. A strange stillness prevailed; there was no wind, and the river was running noiselessly. Once or twice the sound of regular footsteps approached, and the figure of a policeman loomed up and passed. A thin light began to spread, and the whole scene about her became a study in grey. The sky was overcast, canopied with ashen clouds that were ribbed here and there with lines of amethyst and white. The city seemed to rise out of a gloomy and mysterious haze, dim, sad, and unreal. The massive buildings looked like vague grey cliffs. The spires were blurred lines, leaden coloured and unglittering. There had been a sprinkling of rain while she had slept, for the pavements were wet and her clothes damp to the touch. She shivered. It was so cold, and still, and dreary.