The waiter darted back, bearing a tray and tall glasses filled each with piled parti-coloured liqueurs, on the top of which an egg-yolk swam.  Fleetwood gave example.  Swallowing your egg, the fiery-velvet triune behind slips after it, in an easy milky way, like a princess’s train on a state-march, and you are completely, transformed, very agreeably; you have become a merry demon.  ‘Well, yes, it’s next to magic,’ he replied to Woodseer’s astonished snigger after the draught, and explained, that it was a famous Viennese four-of-the-morning panacea, the revellers’ electrical restorer.  ’Now you can hold on for an hour or two, and then we’ll sup.  At Rome?’

‘Ay!  Druids to-morrow!’ cried the philosopher bewitched.

He found himself bowing to a most heavenly lady, composed of day and night in her colouring, but more of night, where the western edge has become a pale steel blade.  Men were around her, forming a semi-circle.  The world of men and women was mere timber and leafage to this flower of her sex, glory of her kind.  How he behaved in her presence, he knew not; he was beyond self-criticism or conscious reflection; simply the engine of the commixed three liqueurs, with parlous fine thoughts, and a sense of steaming into the infinite.

To leave her was to have her as a moon in the heavens and to think of her creatively.  A swarm of images rushed about her and away, took lustre and shade.  She was a miracle of greyness, her eyes translucently grey, a dark-haired queen of the twilights; and his heart sprang into his brain to picture the novel beauty; language became a flushed Bacchanal in a ring of dancing similes.  Lying beside a bank of silvery cinquefoil against a clear evening sky, where the planet Venus is a point of new and warmer light, one has the vision of her.  Or something of Persephone rising to greet her mother, when our beam of day first melts through her as she kneels to gather an early bud of the year, would be near it.  Or there is a lake in mid-forest, that curls part in shadow under the foot of morning:  there we have her.

He strained to the earthly and the skyey likenesses of his marvel of human beauty because they bestowed her on him in passing.  All the while, he was gazing on a green gaming-table.

The gold glittered, and it heaped or it vanished.  Contemptuous of money, beyond the limited sum for his needs, he gazed; imagination was blunted in him to the hot drama of the business.  Moreover his mind was engaged in insisting that the Evening Star is not to be called Venus, because of certain stories; and he was vowed to defend his lady from any allusion to them.  This occupied him.  By degrees, the visible asserted its authority; his look on the coin fell to speculating.  Oddly, too, he was often right;—­the money, staked on the other side, would have won.  He considered it rather a plain calculation than a guess.