His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. Would to God I had.
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