It's late at night, and a heavy fog drifts, white and wet, past the girders and cables of the great bridge. A cold clinging mist that muffles every sound. The clang of the harbour buoys, the foghorn which marks the main channel, even the sound of the old man's footsteps as he shuffles across the bridge. He pauses and leans against a damp railing, hooking his cane over one arm, and fumbling in his pocket with his free hand. He finds his pipe and lights it, and gently calls hello to a lady hidden in the shadows...