He recalled her little gestures, inflections, glances--the thousand
avenues by which her rich and overflowing individuality escaped from
the prison of her will, and impressed itself on the rest of the created
universe. Her story was decidedly singular, and as mysterious as it was
singular; that something sinister would be brought to light, he felt
sure. But what occupied and charmed his mind was the exquisite fact that
between him and her relations were now established. The story, her past
danger, even her possible future danger--these things only interested
him in so far as they formed the basis of an intimacy. He exulted in
being near her, in the savour of her commanding presence. When he
thought of her in his monstrous shop, wilting in the heat, bowing
deferentially to fools, martyrizing her soul for less than two pounds a
week, he thought of kings' daughters sold into slavery. But she was a
princess now, and for evermore, and she had come to him of her own free
will; she had trusted him; she had invited his help! It was glorious
beyond the dreams of his passion.

'Come,' he said feverishly, 'show me how you managed to get to my dome.'

And he threw open the easternmost window, and she stepped with him out
on to the balcony.

They looked down across Hugo's little private garden, into the
blackness of the court of fountains, whose balconies were vaguely
disclosed here and there by the reflection from lit interiors. On the
other side of the deep pit of the court was the vast expanse of flat
roof containing the famous roof garden. Amid dwarf trees and festoons of
coloured lights, the figures of men and women who counted themselves the
cream of London could dimly be seen walking about or sitting at tables;
and the wild strain of the Tsigane musicians, as they swayed to and fro