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seconds flat, and the thought occurred to him, as he watched the company of Hong Kong police step by in their comical coolie hats, that this was mere window-dressing and had nothing to do with the art of war. And it was no snap judgment either. Not only had he fought tribesmen and savages in half-adozen Imperial battle areas, but his had also been the hand that guided the hand of the Prince of Wales to the trigger of the first Maxim gun ever fired in England. He said, voicing his scepticism, "All very pretty, so long as it never comes up against anything more lethal than an assegai or muzzle-loader…" And his wife, Lydia (she who had transformed him from regimental popinjay to professional) concurred, but, being herself a daughter of the regiment, added a rider: "They'd learn," she said, "just so long as some of us bear it in mind."
    * * *
      A muzzle-loader's range from the vantage-point of Alex and Lydia was the third Swann picket, denied the privilege of a first-storey view but not needing one, for he measured six feet three inches in his new boots and could see over all the heads between himself and the kerb.
      Hugo Swann, Olympic athlete and winner of as many cups and medals as Victoria had colonies, would think of it as good track weather, the ground being hard underfoot, and it even put the thought into mind. "Hope it holds," he told Barney O'Neill, the celebrated pole-vaulter. "If it does, we'll get a record gate at Stamford Bridge tomorrow and they need the cash, I'm told."
      It would be difficult to define Hugo's conclusions on the spectacle, other than a spectacle. His father and brothers had long since come to the conclusion that Hugo, bless his thick skull, had never had a serious thought in his life and his presence in the network, where he put in token appearances from time to time, was that of a thirteen-stone sleeping partner. None of them resented this, however, for Hugo, as a Swann advertisement, was worth five thousand a year on George's reckoning. His name appeared on the sporting pages of every journal on Fleet Street nowadays, so that when it cropped up, as it frequently did in coffee house and country house, no one could ever be sure whether the speaker was going to pronounce upon sport or commerce. All one could guarantee was that the name stood for rapid movement of one kind or another, and time schedules had always rated high on the list of Swann priorities.
    * * *
      Four hundred yards nearer St. Paul's, where the procession was channelled into the Strand and marched blaring, thrumming, and jingling between phalanxes of hysterical Imperialists (few among them could have said in which continent British Honduras or Tobago were located) was George Swann, managing director and New Broom Extraordinary. He was perched, together with his wife, his family, and his host, Sir James Lockerbie, in a window that would have fetched a hundred guineas had Sir James been in need of ready money. And George would have defined the brassy sunshine as ideal hauling weather.
      On a day like this, given a fit team, a waggon carrying a full load could make fifteen miles from depot to off-loading point providing the teamster knew his business and gave the horses a regular breather. For years now George had taken weather into his calculations, but his mind was not on business today. With the yard closed down, and every employee enjoying a bonus holiday, he was wondering what new and plausible excuse he could offer Gisela for not making holiday himself. The problem not only took his mind off his work; it also drew a curtain on the procession below so that he saw not an ageing dumpy woman in a gilded carriage drawn by eight greys, not the clattering tide of blue, gold, crimson, and silver of her cavalry escort, and not even the Hong Kong police in their incongruous coolie hats, but a diversion that had interposed between him and his concerns since his chance meeting with Barbara Lockerbie a few weeks ago. For the