As for Rickman, he talked hardly at all.
"You'll have to go in ten minutes, Rick." And by way of softening this announcement she gave him some champagne.
He had paid no attention to that hint either, being occupied with a curious phenomenon.

Though Poppy was, for her, most unusually stationary, he found that it was making him slightly giddy to look at her.
He was arriving at that moment of intoxication when things lose their baldness and immobility, and the world begins to float like an enchanted island in a beautiful blood-warm haze.

Nothing could be more agreeable than the first approaches of this blessed state; he encouraged it, anticipating with ecstasy each stage in the mounting of the illusion.

For when he was sober he saw Poppy very much as she was; but when he was drunk she became for him a being immaculate, divine.
He moved in a region of gross but glorious exaggeration, where his wretched little Cockney passion assumed the proportions of a superb romance.

His soul that minute was the home of the purest, most exalted emotions.