The sombre arch of the sky, the glimmer of lights far away, the clustering shadows against the white field of snow, the vague ghostly shapes of the sycamores--all these things endowed her with the potency of romantic adventure.

In the winter night she seemed to him to exhale the roving sweetness of spring.

Then she spoke, and the sharp brightness of his vision was clouded by the old sense of unreality.
"They treated me as if I were a piece of bunting or a flower in a pot," she said.

"They left me alone in the dressing-room.

No one spoke to me, though they must have known who I was.