Trafford's imagination conjured up a sleepless King Emperor agonizing for humanity....
He turned to his right out of Lancaster Gate into Sussex Square, and came to a stop at the pavement edge.
From across the road he surveyed the wide white front and portals of the house that wasn't big enough for Marjorie.
§ 5
He let himself in with his latchkey.
Malcolm, his man, hovered at the foot of the staircase, and came forward for his hat and gloves and stick.
"Mrs. Trafford in?" asked Trafford.
"She said she would be in by four, sir."
Trafford glanced at his watch and went slowly upstairs.
On the landing there had been a rearrangement of the furniture, and he paused to survey it. The alterations had been made to accommodate a big cloisonné jar, that now glowed a wonder of white and tinted whites and luminous blues upon a dark, deep-shining stand. He noted now the curtain of the window had been changed from something—surely it had been a reddish curtain!—to a sharp clear blue with a black border, that reflected upon and sustained and encouraged the jar tremendously. And the wall behind—? Yes. Its deep brown was darkened to an absolute black behind the jar, and shaded up between the lacquer cabinets on either hand by insensible degrees to the general hue. It was wonderful, perfectly harmonious, and so subtly planned that it seemed it all might have grown, as flowers grow....