"
He sits smoking, his eyes fastened on the scene outside the window. His
eyes seem to be searching as if for meanings that withhold themselves. Yet
obviously there is no thought in his head. A mood has wormed its way
through the columns of figures, columns of reports, and taken possession
of him. This is bad for a financier. It is obvious that the umbrellas
outside are for the moment something other than ripples; that the great
play of life outside is something other than an inarticulate Greek chorus
mumbled as an obbligato for him alone.
The great financier is aware of something. Of what? He shakes his head, as
if to question himself. Of nothing he can tell. Of the fact that a great
financier is an atom like other atoms dancing in a chaos of atoms. Of the
fact that each of the umbrellas crawling past under his window is as
important as himself. The great financier's ego is taking a rest and
dreams naked of words crowd in to distract him.
"We have in Europe a peculiar situation," he says. "England and France,
although hitched to the same wagon, pull in different directions. England
must build up her trade. France must build up her morale. These involve
different efforts. To build up her trade England must re-establish
Germany.
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