One might fancy that day, the magical day, was just beginning. Like a man who had slipped off his suit and black tie to array himself in a party goes ensemble; the day changed, put off stuff, took gauze, transformed to evening, and with the same sigh of exhilaration that a man breathes, tumbling petticoats on the floor, it too shed dust, heat, color; the traffic thinned; motor cars, tinkling, darting, succeeded the lumber of vans; and here and there among the thick foliage of the squares an intense light hung. The evening seemed to say, as it paled and faded above the battlements and prominence, molded, pointed, of hotel, flat, and block of shops, he was beginning. He disappeared, but the night would have none of it, and rushed his bayonets into the sky, pinioned him, constrained him to partnership in his revelry.
