There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. They became aware of the waitress standing over them with book and pencil ready for their bill. She watched her friend rise and go towards her affianced husband, a look of mischief in her face. “Quite unusually cold for the time of year,” he said. Spurlock.
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