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THE PUBLISHER looked up at the constellation of stars which my neighbour at the window took for the retreating Zeppelin, and as he passed me I said, "Do you see the Pleiades?" To which he responded in an aggrieved tone, "Yes, yes." In Fleet Street we walked through what seemed to be masses of broken ice, and stood for a few minutes watching the firemen on ladders against the Morning Post building, putting out the fire. There I left the Publisher, thanking him for his kind and novel entertainment, and proceeded across the bridge to Waterloo Station.

The lights were out, soldiers and others were lying about, and no trains were running. Hurrying to the underground I took a train to Richmond, that was redirected to Ealing on the way, and got down somewhere at 2 a.m. A kind policeman roused up a man from his bed, who drove me in a taxi to The Hermitage, which I reached at three o'clock, to the great relief of my family. This was the first air raid. During the two long years which followed, they were so frequent that they became a commonplace thing to the Publisher and his wife, who, from their windows in Adelphi Terrace, had a free view of the ships and planes that flew up and down the Thames every moonlit night.

The day after the supper in Gough Square I came into London to see the effect of the raid upon the people. The Strand and Fleet Street were densely crowded with sightseers on foot, gaping in wonderment at the havoc that had been made. Less than half a mile away, in Oxford Street, the traffic was going on as usual, and the pavements were crowded with shoppers, who either did not know, or did not care, that a murderous and destructive raid had taken place.