He was in Westminster Cathedral and it was also a railway station of intolerable vastness and silence. A church has chairs, vaulting; these provided abominations on the floor and overhead. A station has taxicabs, advertisements, kiosks, angles. What a wilderness of these features. There was a covered lorry with a stupid bill pasted on its hood : ‘G. S. R. Man is omnivorous.’ The lorry became multiplied to infinity in dreary perspective, the alignment perfect like an army-train or a boy’s drawing. Park went down the line in his vestments looking for the sacristy and a third-class smoking compartment. He had lost his server and his railway porter. I shall recognize him, for he is black. An unending train went through, pouring out passengers without stopping; all were negroes. Park halted and addressed himself prophetically :

Go through the swinging glass doors; no one will notice you, as you are black. With a wrench and a struggle he came to himself.