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.