The bronze
doors slid apart and Krogh was
in the circular courtyard. Krogh was surrounded by Krogh’s. The cold clear afternoon sky roofed in the cube of glass and steel. The
whole lower floors one room
deep were exposed to him; he
could see the accountants working on the ground floor, the glass flashing primrose before the electric fires.
He noticed at once that the fountain was completed; the green shape worried him as he was not often worried; it accused him of cowardice. He had pandered to a fashion he did not
understand; he would much preferred to have set in the
fountain a marble goddess, a naked child, a nymph with
concealing hands. He paused to examine
the stone; no instinct
told him whether it was good art or bad art; he did not understand. He was uneasy, but he did not show his
uneasiness. His high bald
face, like a roll of newspaper, showed at a distance only bold headlines; the smaller type, the little subtleties, obscure fears, were invisible.
He grew aware of being
observed; he was watched through the
glass by an accountant over his machine, by a director from his chromium
balcony, by a waitress drawing the black
leather blinds in the staff
restaurant. The day faded quickly above his head, the lights began to go on behind the
curved glass walls while he dallied beside the green statuary.
Krogh mounted the double doors of Krogh’s.
