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There was good sense in that. It's silly to be a hero to evade discomfort, but there were three very solid floors above us. We talk about it, as one does, studying the ceiling and wondering whether it would support the weight of the roof. Our reflections did not stir us from our chairs.

A young waiter came in to the room, carrying a torch and with a tin hat in his hand.

He said, "The shelter is in the basement, through the buttery door, sir."

Howard said, "Do we have to go there?"

"Not unless you wish to."

I said, "Are you going down there, Andrews?"

"No, sir. I'm on duty, in case of incendiary bombs, and that."

"Well," I said, "get on and do whatever you've got to do. Then, when you've got a minute to spare, bring me a glass of Marsala. But go and do your job first."

Howard said, "I think that's a very good idea. You can bring me a glass of Marsala, too--between the incendiary bombs. You'll find me sitting here."

"Very good, sir."

He went away, and we relaxed again. It was about half-past ten. The waiter had turned out all the lights except for the one reading lamp behind our heads, so that we sat there in a little pool of soft yellow light in the great shadowy room. Outside, the traffic noises, little enough in London at that time, were practically stilled. A few police whistles shrilled in the distance and a car went by at a high speed; then silence closed down upon the long length of Pall Mall, but for some gunfire in the distance.