His dreams took shape before him, they came and went at will, undisturbed by any gross collision with reality.

There was hardly any part of it that was not consecrated by some divine visitation.

It was in the corner by the window, standing on a step-ladder and fumbling in the darkness for a copy of Demosthenes, _De Corona_, that he lit on his first Idea.

From his seat behind the counter, staring, as was his custom, into the recess where the coal-scuttle was, he first saw the immortal face of Helen in Leuce.
Here, all that beautiful world of thought lay open to the terrific invasion of things.

His dreams refused to stand out with sufficient distinctness from a background of coloured bindings, plate glass and mahogany.