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Stopping midway of the road, Stephen Culpeper glanced back over the
vague streets and the clearer distance, where the approaching dusk spun
mauve and silver cobwebs of air. From that city, it seemed to him, a new
and inscrutable force--the force of an idea--had risen within the last
few months to engulf the Square and all that the Square had ever meant
in his life. Though he was only twenty-six, he felt that he had watched
the decay and dissolution of a hundred years. Nothing of the past
remained untouched. Not the old buildings, not the old trees, not even
the old memories. Clustering traditions had fled in the white blaze of
electricity; the quaint brick walks, with their rich colour in the
sunlight, were beginning to disappear beneath the expressionless mask of
concrete. It was all changed since his father's or his grandfather's
day; it was all obvious and cheap, he thought; it was all ugly and naked
and undistinguished--yet the tide of the new ideas was still rising.


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