"Superb, are they not?" said Peter, as he wheeled and stood
looking at the row of monoliths supporting the roof of the huge
granite pile, each column in relief against the dark shadows of
the portico. "And they are never so beautiful to me, my boy, as
when the ugly parts of the old building are lost in the fog.
Follow the lines of these watchmen of the temple! These grave,
dignified, majestic columns standing out in the gloom keeping
guard! But it is only a question of time--down they'll come! See
if they don't!"
"They will never dare move them," I protested. "It would be too
great a sacrilege." The best way to get Peter properly started is
never to agree with him.
"Not move them! They will break them up for dock-filling before
ten years are out. They're in the way, my boy; they shut out the
light; can't hang signs on them; can't plaster them over with
theatre bills; no earthly use. 'Wall Street isn't Rome or any
other excavated ruin; it's the centre of the universe'--that's
the way the fellows behind these glass windows talk.
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