Next to him sat Tuesday, the tousle-headed Gogol, a man more obviously mad.

Next was Wednesday, a certain Marquis de St.Eustache, a sufficiently characteristic figure.

The first few glances found nothing unusual about him, except that he was the only man at table who wore the fashionable clothes as if they were really his own.

He had a black French beard cut square and a black English frock-coat cut even squarer.
But Syme, sensitive to such things, felt somehow that the man carried a rich atmosphere with him, a rich atmosphere that suffocated.

It reminded one irrationally of drowsy odours and of dying lamps in the darker poems of Byron and Poe.