et upon the parterres of lobelias and
geraniums and calceolarias that with nightfall came to seem brocaded
cushions.

It was a time profitable with a thousand reflections, this crowded hour
of the promenade. There was always the mesmeric sighing of silk skirts
and the ceaseless murmur of conversation; there was the noise of the
band and the tapping of canes; there was, in fact, a regularity of
sound that was as infinitely soothing as breaking waves or a
wind-ruffled wood. There were the sudden provocative glances which
flashed as impersonally as precious stones, and yet lanced forth a
thrill that no faceted gem could give. There were hands whose white
knuckles, as they rippled over Michael's hands in some momentary
pressure of the throng, gave him a sense of being an instrument upon
which a chord had been clearly struck. There were strands of hair that
floated against his cheeks with a strange, but exquisitely elusive
intimacy of communication. It was all very intoxicating and very
sensuous; but the spell crept over him as imperceptibly as if he were
merely yielding himself to the influence of a beautiful landscape, as if
he were lotus-eating in a solitude created by numbers.

Michael, however, was not content to dream away in a crowd these
passionate nights of July; and after a while he set out to find
adventures in the great bazaar of the Exhibition, wandering through the
golden corridors and arcades with a queer sense of suppressed
expectancy. So many fantastic trades were carried on here, that it was
natural to endow the girls behind the counters with a more romantic life
than that of ordinary and anaemic shop-assistants. Even Miss Mabel
Bannerman amid her Turkish Delight came to seem less crude in such
surroundings, and Michael once or twice had thoughts of prosecuting his
acquaintanceship; for as yet he had not been able to bring himself to
converse with any of the numerous girls, so much more attractive than
Mabel, who were haunting him with their suggestion of a strange
potentiality.

Michael wandered on past the palmists who went in and out of their
tapestried tents; past the physiognomists and phrenologists and
graphologists; past the vendors of scents and silver; past the languid
women who spread out their golden rugs from Samarcand; past the
Oriental shops fuming with odorous pastilles, where lamps encrusted in
deep-hued jewels of glass glimmered richly; past that slant-eyed
cigarette-seller with the cri