But Clarence did not miss him; indeed, it may be feared, he forgot even the object of their journey in the new sensations that suddenly thronged upon him, and the boyish vista of the future that they seemed to open.

He was dazed and intoxicated.

He had never seen so many books before; he had never conceived of such lovely pictures.

And yet in some vague way he thought he must have dreamt of them at some time.

He had mounted a chair, and was gazing spellbound at an engraving of a sea-fight when he heard Flynn's voice.
His friend had quietly reentered the room, in company with an oldish, half-foreign-looking man, evidently his relation.