Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. “Why on earth,” he asked, “did you hurt me like that?” Ann Veronica did her best to think she had not deliberately attempted to cause him pain. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. ‘You will not, pig,’ cried Melusine. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room.
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