From Bloomsbury to Whitehall Street is only twenty minutes, but Arthur felt as if he had crossed two seasons of London.
The university campus was blowing a gentle breeze, and the winter sun shining on him felt warm.
But at this moment, in front of No. 10 Downing Street, the air was filled with a cold metallic odor.
The dark iron gate was silent, and the gas lamp under the porch was excessively stable, with no wind and no flickering flame.
When the attendant pushed the door open for him, a dry warmth hit his face.
The interior was quieter than usual, so quiet that it didn't seem like the bustling Prime Minister's Office.
Blackwell was left waiting in the hall, only Arthur was led by an attendant through the narrow corridor.
The moment the door opened, the slight friction of wood announced the presence of the Prime Minister.
Viscount Melbourne sat in a sofa chair by the fireplace, holding a neatly folded copy of the Morning Paper.
