After the salon at which he was urged to follow writers that dealt with digestible commonplace realities, Du Tref found the deflated tyres of his car a too apropos suggestive prod. He called for a hack to deliver him home. The gold window shades and orange streetlamps murked his den beyond mark of shadow, leaving: a lemon and bronze assortment of divested bric-a-brac; hot, beige houseplants with falling brass flowers; a gilt cat bejeweled with topaz arabesques asleep as if born down. Du Tref was icteric and weak. We recall from rediscovered records that his driver had smelled of saffron.