Ian still in his mind, he recovered strongly the look of that room the day Ian had taken him there, in boyhood, when they first met.
Out of that vividness started a nucleus more vivid yet--the picture in the book-closet of the city of refuge, and the silver goblet drawn from the hidden shelf of the aumry.

The recaptured moment lost shape and color, returned to the infinite past.

He turned the corner of the house and came into the gardens that Mr.Touris had had laid out after the French style.
Here by the fountain he discovered the retired merchant, and with him a guest, an old trade connection, now a power in the East India Company.

The laird of Black Hill, a little more withered, a little more stooped than of old, but still fluent, caustic, and with now and then to the surface a vague, cold froth of insincerity, made up much to this magnate of commerce.

He stood on his own heath, or by his own fountain, but his neck had in it a deferential crook.