Amory looked up with an irrepressible thrill of delight. He was just
at that moment crossing the high white audience-hall, the anteroom
to the Hall of Kings--he, Amory, in Tyrian purple garments. If
anything were needed to complete the picture it would be to meet
face to face, there in that big, lonely room, a little figure in
rose and silver. It made his heart beat even to think of the
possibilities of that situation. He skirted the Hall of Kings, and
stood in one of the archways of the colonnade, facing the banquet
room.
The banquet-table extended about three sides of the room, whose
centre the guests faced. The middle space was left pure, unvexed by
columns or furnishing. At the room's far end Amory glimpsed the
prince, at his side Olivia's white veil, and her women about her;
and, nearer, St. George and Balator in the place appointed. A guard
came to conduct him, and he crossed to his seat and sank down with
the look that could be made to mean whatever Amory meant.
"I expect to be served," murmured the journalist in him, "by
beautiful tame megatheriums, in sashes.
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