Mr Segundus felt very tired by his adventure. Other gentlemen had been more frightened than he; he had seen magic and thought it wonderful beyond any thing he had imagined, and yet now that it was over his spirits were greatly agitated and he wished very much to be allowed to go quietly home without speaking to any one. While he was in this susceptible condition he found himself halted and addressed by Mr Norrell’s man of business.

“I believe, sir,” said Mr Childermass, “that the society must now be broken up. I am sorry for it.”

Now it may have been due entirely to Mr Segundus’s lowness of spirits, but he suspected that, in spite of Childermass’s manner which was very respectful, in some other part of Childermass’s person he was laughing at the York magicians. Childermass was one of that uncomfortable class of men whose birth is lowly and who are destined all their lives to serve their betters, but whose clever brains and quick abilities make them wish for recognition and rewards far beyond their reach. Sometimes, by some strange combination of happy circumstances, these men find their own path to greatness, but more often the thought of what might have been turns them sour; they become unwilling servants and perform their tasks no better – or worse – than their less able fellows. They become insolent, lose their places and end badly.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Childermass, “but I have a question to put to you. I hope you will not think it impertinent, but I would like to know if you ever look into a London paper?”

Mr Segundus replied that he did.

“Indeed? That is most interesting. I myself am fond of a newspaper. But I have little leisure for reading – except such books as come my way in the course of my duties for Mr Norrell. And what sort of thing does one find in a London paper nowadays? – you will excuse my asking, sir, only Mr Norrell, who never looks at a paper of any sort, put the question to me yesterday and I did not think myself qualified to answer it.”

“Well,” said Mr Segundus, a little puzzled, “there are all sorts of things. What did you wish to know? There are accounts of the actions of His Majesty’s Navy against the French; speeches of the Government; reports of scandals and divorces. Is this what you meant?”

“Oh yes!” said Childermass. “You explain it very well, sir. I wonder,” he continued, growing thoughtful, “whether provincial news is ever reported in the London papers? – whether (for example) today’s remarkable occurrences might merit a paragraph?”

“I do not know,” said Mr Segundus. “It seems to me quite possible but then, you know, Yorkshire is so far from London – perhaps the London editors will never get to hear of what has happened.”

“Ah,” said Mr Childermass; and then was silent.

Snow began to fall; a few flakes at first – then rather more than a few; until a million little flakes were drifting down from a soft, heavy greenish-grey sky. All the buildings of York became a little fainter, a little greyer in the snow; the people all seemed a little smaller; the cries and shouts, the footsteps and hoofsteps, the creaks of carriages and the slammings of doors were all a little more distant. And all these things became somehow less important until all the world contained was the falling snow, the sea-green sky, the dim, grey ghost of York Cathedral – and Childermass.