From the balcony you look down upon massed and variegated tree- tops asthough you were looking down upon a valley forest from a mountain height.Those trees, whose hidden trunks make alleys and squares, are rooted in thehistory of France. On the dusty gravel of the promenade which runs betweenthe garden and the street a very young man and a girl, tiny figures, are playingwith rackets at one of those second-rate ball games beloved by the Frenchpetite bourgeoisie. Their jackets and hats are hung on the corner of the fancywooden case in which an orangetree is planted. They are certainly perspiringin the heavy heat of the early morning. They are also certainly in love. Thislively dalliance is the preliminary to a day's deskwork. It seems ill-chosen, silly, futile.

The couple have forgotten, if they ever knew, that they are playingat a terrific and long-drawn moment of crisis in a spot sacred to the finestcivilisation.Enoch Arnold Bennett was an English writer. He is best known as a novelist, but he also worked in other fields such as the theatre, journalism, propaganda and films.