Although he had visited London but once before, and then only for a few hours, he was not unfamiliar¹ with the topography of the town, having frequently studied it in maps and an old copy of Kelly's directory.  
He walked slowly up Park Side and through Piccadilly, picking out as he passed them the French Embassy, Hyde Park Corner, Apsley House, Park Lane, and Devonshire House. As he drank in the mingled² glare and glamour³ of Piccadilly by night,—the remote stars, the high sombre trees, the vast, dazzling interiors of clubs, the sinuous⁴, flickering⁵ lines of traffic, the radiant faces of women framed in hansoms,—he laughed the laugh of luxurious⁶ contemplation, acutely happy. At last, at last, he had come into his inheritance. London accepted him. He was hers; she his; and nothing should part them. Starvation in London would itself be bliss⁷. But he had no intention of starving! Filled with great purposes, he straightened his back, and just then a morsel⁸ of mud thrown up from a bus-wheel splashed warm and gritty on his cheek. He wiped it off caressingly⁹, with a smile.
 
Although it was Saturday night, and most of the shops were closed, an establishment where watches and trinkets of "Anglo-Spanish" gold, superb in appearance and pillowed on green plush, were retailed¹⁰ at alluring¹¹ prices, still threw a brilliant light on the pavement, and Richard crossed the road to inspect its wares¹². He turned away, but retraced¹³ his steps and entered the shop. An assistant politely inquired his wishes.
 
"I want one of those hunters you have in the window at 29/6," said Richard, with a gruffness which must have been involuntary.
 
"Yes, sir. Here is one. We guarantee that the works are equal to the finest English lever."
 
"I'll take it." He put down the money.
 
"Thank you. Can I show you anything else?"
 
"Nothing, thanks," still more gruffly.
 
"We have some excellent chains...."
 
"Nothing else, thanks." And he walked out, putting his purchase in his pocket. A perfectly¹⁴ reliable gold watch, which he had worn for years, already lay there.
 
At Piccadilly Circus he loitered, and then crossed over and went along Coventry Street to Leicester Square. The immense façade of the Ottoman Theatre of Varieties, with its rows of illuminated¹⁵ windows and crescent moons set against the sky, rose before him, and the glory of it was intoxicating¹⁶. It is not too much to say that the Ottoman held a stronger fascination¹⁷ for Richard than any other place in London. The British Museum, Fleet Street, and the Lyceum were magic names, but more magical than either was the name of the Ottoman. The Ottoman, on the rare occasions when it happened to be mentioned in Bursley, was a synonym¹⁸ for all the glittering vices¹⁹ of the metropolis²¹. It stank²² in the nostrils²³ of the London delegates who came down to speak at the annual meetings of the local Society for the Suppression of Vice²⁰. But how often had Richard, somnolent²⁴ in chapel²⁵, mitigated²⁶ the rigours of a long sermon by dreaming of an Ottoman ballet,—one of those voluptuous²⁷ spectacles, all legs and white arms, which from time to time were described so ornately in the London daily papers.
 
The brass-barred swinging doors of the Grand Circle entrance were simultaneously²⁸ opened for him by two human automata dressed exactly alike in long semi-military coats, a very tall man and a stunted²⁹ boy. He advanced with what air of custom he could command, and after taking a ticket and traversing a heavily decorated corridor encountered another pair of swinging doors; they opened, and a girl passed out, followed by a man who was talking to her vehemently³⁰ in French. At the same moment a gust³¹ of distant music struck Richard's ear. As he climbed a broad, thick-piled flight of steps, the music became louder, and a clapping of hands could be heard. At the top of the steps hung a curtain of blue velvet³²; he pushed aside its stiff, heavy folds with difficulty, and entered the auditorium³³.
 
The smoke of a thousand cigarettes enveloped³⁴ the furthest parts of the great interior in a thin bluish haze³⁵, which was dissipated as it reached the domed³⁶ ceiling in the rays of a crystal chandelier. Far in front and a little below the level of the circle lay a line of footlights broken by the silhouette³⁷ of the conductor's head. A diminutive³⁸, solitary³⁹ figure in red and yellow stood in the centre of the huge stage; it was kissing its hands to the audience with a mincing⁴⁰, operatic gesture; presently it tripped off backwards⁴¹, stopping at every third step to bow; the applause ceased, and the curtain fell slowly.
 
The broad, semicircular promenade⁴² which flanked the seats of the grand circle was filled with a well-dressed, well-fed crowd. The men talked and laughed, for the most part, in little knots, while in and out, steering⁴³ their way easily and rapidly among these groups, moved the women: some with rouged⁴⁴ cheeks, greasy⁴⁵ vermilion lips, and enormous liquid eyes; others whose faces were innocent of cosmetics⁴⁶ and showed pale under the electric light; but all with a peculiar⁴⁷, exaggerated swing of the body from the hips⁴⁸, and all surreptitiously regarding themselves in the mirrors which abounded⁴⁹ on every glowing wall.
 
Richard stood aloof⁵⁰ against a pillar. Near him were two men in evening dress conversing⁵¹ in tones which just rose above the general murmur⁵² of talk and the high, penetrating⁵³ tinkle⁵⁴ of glass from the bar behind the promenade.
 
"And what did she say then?" one of the pair asked smilingly. Richard strained his ear to listen.
 
"Well, she told me," the other said, speaking with a dreamy drawl, while fingering his watch-chain absently and gazing down at the large diamond in his shirt,—"she told me that she said she'd do for him if he didn't fork out. But I don't believe her. You know, of course.... There's Lottie...."
 
The band suddenly began to play, and after a few crashing bars the curtain went up for the ballet. The rich coup⁵⁵ d'oeil which presented itself provoked a burst of clapping from the floor of the house and the upper tiers, but to Richard's surprise no one in his proximity⁵⁶ seemed to exhibit any interest in the entertainment. The two men still talked with their backs to the stage, the women continued to find a pathway between the groups, and from within the bar came the unabated murmur of voices and tinkle of glass.
 
Richard never took his dazed eyes from the stage. The moving pageant⁵⁷ unrolled itself before him like a vision, rousing new sensations, tremors⁵⁸ of strange desires. He was under a spell, and when at last the curtain descended⁵⁹ to the monotonous⁶⁰ roll of drums, he awoke to the fact that several people were watching him curiously⁶¹. Blushing slightly, he went to a far corner of the promenade. At one of the little tables a woman sat alone. She held her head at an angle, and her laughing, lustrous⁶² eyes gleamed invitingly⁶³ at Richard. Without quite intending to do so he hesitated in front of her, and she twittered a phrase ending in chéri.
 
He abruptly⁶⁴ turned away. He would have been very glad to remain and say something clever, but his tongue refused its office, and his legs moved of themselves.
 
At midnight he found himself in Piccadilly Circus, unwilling⁶⁵ to go home. He strolled leisurely⁶⁶ back to Leicester Square. The front of the Ottoman was in darkness, and the square almost deserted⁶⁷.