The Malcontents by C.P. Snow

That afternoon, while Stephen and the others were waiting for the crisis, only a handful of people in the town knew anything of their affairs, or gave them a thought. There were a quarter of a million people living round about; no one has ever done a survey of what is happening, on such an afternoon, to so many human lives. For many of course, it wouldn't be much different from the day before or the day after. For a few, the anxieties of any of Stephen's companions would have seemed trivial beside their own. If statistics are any guide, there must have been, in the homes and hospitals of the town, something like six or eight men and women who were nearing their deaths that day, as on any other day throughout the year. That was in the nature of things, just mortality: but to some close to them those words would have been no comfort.

Nearer home, that is nearer Stephen's home, the fates were less evident and the goings-on more domestic. The Bishop had come away from a Rotary luncheon, and was for once slightly depressed about his fellow men. It wasn't his daughter who was on his mind, or at least not heavily. He had noticed that she was preoccupied, but assumed that that was on account of a young man: since his wife was not a silent partner, he hadn't been left in doubt who the young man was. Well, that would be more than satisfactory: anyway, for the Bishop was a hearty man, he hoped and expected that his daughter would marry someone soon enough, enjoy herself, have children and be happy. He was very fond of her, and he thought of her marriage as being as happy as his own.