There was a kind of winter-garden that one strolled in, a place of giant palms stretching up into a darkness of intense shadow.

I was prowling about in the shadows of great metallic leaves, cursing under my breath, in a fury of nervous irritation; quivering like a horse martyrised by a stupidly merciless driver.

I happened to stand back for a moment in the narrowest of paths, with the touch of spiky leaves on my hand and on my face.

In front of me was the glaring perspective of one of the longer alleys, and, stepping into it, a great band of blue ribbon cutting across his chest, came de Mersch with her upon his arm.

De Mersch himself hardly counted.