. ’ Roding blinked. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. So she built a shrine. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior.
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