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A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. From midnight until morning he was now left alone. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. “What did it matter?” she cried. He declined supper, but took wine. We are expecting a visit from Sir John Ferringhall at any moment. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired.
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