In lonely back rooms, full of desks and dust, haunted lights of evening stand like splendid apparitions; and sometimes, if you lingered at the top of High Street, beneath the dark old church, and the moon was out on the left of the steeple and the sunset dying on the right, dying beyond the tangled masts and fading from the river, you would forget you were a city clerk, and you would wonder why the world was so beautiful, why the moon was made of pearl, and what it was that called to you out of yonder golden sea; and your heart would fill with a strange gladness, and you would call back to those unearthly voices, "I am yours, yours, all yours!" Thus would this town of bales and merchants, of office-desks and stools, make poets at evening that she might stone them at noon.

For, of course, she would have forgotten it all in the morning; and it were well not to remind her with your dreaming eyes of her last night's softness.

She will look back at you with stony misunderstanding, and her new lover Reality will sharply box your ears.
It is no use reminding the Exchange that it looked like a scene from Romeo and Juliet in the moonlight.

It dare not admit it.

But wait patiently till the evening.