And which of the lights is
the true one?"
"I dare say neither."
"Why not both? The smartest coat has a lining, you know. I dare say
there are velvet sins as well as plush sins, and the man who can find
the velvet is the lucky fellow. Sins feel like plush to me, however,
and I dislike plush. So I am not the lucky fellow."
"No, Valentine; you are wrong. I'm pretty sure all virtue is velvet and
all vice is plush. So you stick to velvet."
"I don't know. Ask the next pretty dressmaker you meet. Bloomsbury
is a genteel _inferno_ on a wet night."
They traversed it smoothly on asphalt ways. All the time Valentine was
watching Julian with a fixed and narrow scrutiny, which Julian failed to
notice. The rows of dull houses seemed endless, and endlessly alike.
"I am sure all of them are full of solicitors," said Valentine.
Presently in many fanlights they saw the mystic legend, "Apartments."
Then there were buildings that had an aged air and sported broken
windows. Occasionally, on a background of red glass lit by a gas-jet
from behind, sat the word "Hotel." A certain grimy degradation swam in
the atmosphere of these streets. Their aspect was subtly different from
the Bloomsbury thoroughfares, which look actively church-going, and are
full of the shadows of an everlasting respectability which pays its
water rates and sends occasional conscience-money to the Chancellor of
the Exchequer.
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