He went to the south window, threw it up, and leaning out stared down on the network of windows, beaded gas lamps and shops, with its black interstices of roof and yard that made up the town at night. “Looks like a crowd down the hill,” he said, “by The Cricketers,” and remained watching. Thence his eyes wandered over the town to far away where the ships’ lights shone, and the pier glowed⁠—a little illuminated, facetted pavilion like a gem of yellow light. The moon in its first quarter hung over the westward hill, and the stars were clear and almost tropically bright.

After five minutes, during which his mind had travelled into a remote speculation of social conditions of the future, and lost itself at last over the time dimension, Dr. Kemp roused himself with a sigh, pulled down the window again, and returned to his writing desk.