He hurried back to Bloomsbury, in the wake of her hansom, to the house of the balcony opposite the plane-trees.

The plane-tree was half-withdrawn into the night, but the balcony hung out black in the yellow light from its three long windows.

Poppy was not in the balcony.
He went up into the room where the light was, a room that had been once an ordinary Bloomsbury drawing-room, the drawing-room of Propriety.

Now it was Poppy's drawing-room.
You came straight out of a desert of dreary and obscure respectability, and it burst, it blossomed into Poppy before your eyes.

Portraits of Poppy on the walls, in every conceivable and inconceivable attitude.