It may have been that the maraschino induced a haze upon the rest of the afternoon.  The gas-lamps were lit when they left the pastry-cook’s and entered a haberdasher’s where Taffy, without knowing why, was fitted with a pair of white kid gloves.  Of dinner at the hotel he remembered nothing except that the candles on the tables had red shades, of which the silverware gave funny reflections; that the same waiter flitted about in the penumbra; and that Sir Harry, who was dressed like the waiter, said, “Wake up, young Marasheno!  Do you take your coffee black?” “It’s usually pale brown at home,” answered Taffy; at which Sir Harry laughed again.  “Black will suit you better to-night,” he said, and poured out a small cupful, which Taffy drank and found exceedingly nasty.  And a moment later he was wide awake, and the three were following a young woman along a passage which seemed to run in a complete circle.  The young woman flung open a door; they entered a little room with a balcony in front; and the first glorious vision broke on the child with a blaze of light, a crash of music, and the murmur of hundreds of voices.

Faces, faces, faces!—­faces mounting from the pit below him, up and up to the sky-blue ceiling, where painted goddesses danced and scattered pink roses around the enormous gasalier.  Fauns piping on the great curtain, fiddles sawing in the orchestra beneath, ladies in gay silks and jewels leaning over the gilt balconies opposite—­which were real, and which a vision only?  He turned helplessly to George and Sir Harry.  Yes, they were real.  But what of Nannizabuloe, and the sand-hills, and the little parsonage to which that very morning he had turned to wave his handkerchief?

A bell rang, and the curtain rose upon a company of russet-brown elves dancing in a green wood.  The play was Jack the Giant-killer; but Taffy, who knew the story in the book by heart, found the story on the stage almost meaningless.  That mattered nothing; it was the world, the new and unimagined world, stretching deeper and still deeper as the scenes were lifted—­a world in which solid walls crumbled, and forests melted, and loveliness broke through the ruins, unfolding like a rose; it was this that seized on the child’s heart until he could have wept for its mere beauty.  Often he had sought out the trout-pools on the moors behind the towans, and lying at full length had watched the fish moving between the stones and water-plants; and watching through a summer’s afternoon had longed to change places with them and glide through their grottoes or anchor among the reed-stalks and let the ripple run over him.  As long back as he could remember, all beautiful sights had awakened this ache, this longing—­

     “O, that I were where I would be! 
        Then would I be where I am not;
      For where I am I would not be,
        And where I would be, I cannot.”