The Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of him) was expounding
a recondite matter to us. His grey eyes shone and twinkled, and his usually pale
face was flushed and animated. The fire burned brightly, and the soft radiance
of the incandescent lights in the lilies of silver caught the bubbles that
flashed and passed in our glasses. Our chairs, being his patents, embraced and
caressed us rather than submitted to be sat upon, and there was that luxurious
after-dinner atmosphere when thought roams gracefully free of the trammels of
precision. And he put it to us in this way—marking the points with a lean
forefinger—as we sat and lazily admired his earnestness over this new paradox
(as we thought it) and his fecundity.

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