As he looked down, past Mr. Urquhart’s profile, upon the lawn below, and contemplated the rich mingling of asters, lobelias, and salpiglossis in Roger Monk’s favourite flowerbed, it seemed to Wolf that certain prematurely fallen leaves which he caught sight of down there upon the grass had struck his consciousness long ago with a tremendous significance. Those sultry glowing purples⁠ ⁠… those dead leaves⁠ ⁠… what was that significance? “This day is going to be a queer day for me,” he thought. For he had become aware that some screen, some casement, at the back of his mind, behind which his most secret impressions lived and moved in their twilight, had swung open a little.⁠ ⁠…