His star was high in the heavens.

With the eye of his mind he saw a long procession of turf triumphs, a long vista of days and nights, and in them, round them, of them--Helen Bellow; and by an odd coincidence, as he stood there, the artist's glazed look came over his eyes, the little line sprang up between them.
He turned at the sound of voices and sank into a chair.

To have been caught thus gazing at himself would have jarred on his sense of what was right.
It was twenty minutes past seven, when, in evening dress, he left the club, and took a shilling's-worth to Buckingham Gate.

Here he dismissed his cab, and turned up the large fur collar of his coat.

Between the brim of his opera-hat and the edge of that collar nothing but his eyes were visible.