He is, be it repeated, a very beautiful youth, moving as in a
dream, walking as on air. He puts his flowers down carefully on
the table beside the fan; takes off his cape, and, as there is no
room on the table for it, takes it to the piano; puts his hat on
the cape; crosses to the hearth; looks at his watch; puts it up
again; notices the things on the table; lights up as if he saw
heaven opening before him; goes to the table and takes the cloud
in both hands, nestling his nose into its softness and kissing
it; kisses the gloves one after another; kisses the fan: gasps a
long shuddering sigh of ecstasy; sits down on the stool and
presses his hands to his eyes to shut out reality and dream a
little; takes his hands down and shakes his head with a little
smile of rebuke for his folly; catches sight of a speck of dust
on his shoes and hastily and carefully brushes it off with his
handkerchief; rises and takes the hand mirror from the table to
make sure of his tie with the gravest anxiety; and is looking at
his watch again when She comes in, much flustered. As she is
dressed for the theatre; has spoilt, petted ways; and wears many
diamonds, she has an air of being a young and beautiful woman;
but as a matter of hard fact, she is, dress and pretensions
apart, a very ordinary South Kensington female of about 37,
hopelessly inferior in physical and spiritual distinction to the
beautiful youth, who hastily puts down the mirror as she enters.

HE [kissing her hand] At last!

SHE. Henry: something dreadful has happened.

HE. What's the matter?