The Englishman preferred to look upon the preacher as guided by a purely abstract love of beauty.

His eloquence, at any rate, was unquestionable, and Shelton came out feeling sick.
It was not yet seven o'clock, so, entering an Italian restaurant to kill the half-hour before Antonia's arrival, he ordered a bottle of wine for his companion, a cup of coffee for himself, and, lighting a cigarette, compressed his lips.

There was a strange, sweet sinking in his heart.
His companion, ignorant of this emotion, drank his wine, crumbled his roll, and blew smoke through his nostrils, glancing caustically at the rows of little tables, the cheap mirrors, the hot, red velvet, the chandeliers.

His juicy lips seemed to be murmuring, "Ah! if you only knew of the dirt behind these feathers!" Shelton watched him with disgust.

Though his clothes were now so nice, his nails were not quite clean, and his fingertips seemed yellow to the bone.