A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. A town called Foster. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. His blood would be sweet with it. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position.
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