He thought of these waiting people for a time, and then he fell into a speculation about the King. He wondered if the King ever lay awake at three o'clock in the morning and faced the riddle of the eternities or whether he did really take himself seriously and contentedly as being in himself the vital function of the State, performed his ceremonies, went hither and thither through a wilderness of gaping watchers, slept well on it. Was the man satisfied? Was he satisfied with his empire as it was and himself as he was, or did some vision, some high, ironical intimation of the latent and lost possibilities of his empire and of the world of Things Conceivable that lies beyond the poor tawdry splendours of our present loyalties, ever dawn upon him? Trafford's imagination conjured up a sleepless King Emperor agonizing for humanity.... He turned to his right out of Lancaster Gate into Sussex Square, and came to a stop at the pavement edge. From across the road he surveyed the wide white front and portals of the house that wasn't big enough for Marjorie. § 5 He let himself in with his latchkey. Malcolm, his man, hovered at the foot of the staircase, and came forward for his hat and gloves and stick. "Mrs. Trafford in?" asked Trafford. "She said she would be in by four, sir." Trafford glanced at his watch and went slowly upstairs. On the landing there had been a rearrangement of the furniture, and he paused to survey it. The alterations had been made to accommodate a big cloisonné jar, that now glowed a wonder of white and tinted whites and luminous blues upon a dark, deep-shining stand. He noted now the curtain of the window had been changed from something--surely it had been a reddish curtain!--to a sharp clear blue with a black border, that reflected upon and sustained and encouraged the jar tremendously. And the wall behind--? Yes. Its deep brown was darkened to an absolute black behind the jar, and shaded up between the lacquer cabinets on either hand by insensible degrees to the general hue. It was wonderful, perfectly harmonious, and so subtly planned that it seemed it all might have grown, as flowers grow.... He entered the drawing-room and surveyed its long and handsome spaces. Post-impressionism was over and gone; three long pictures by young Rogerson and one of Redwood's gallant bronzes faced the tall windows between the white marble fireplaces at either end. There were two lean jars from India, a young boy's head from Florence, and in a great bowl in the remotest corner a radiant mass of azaleas....