“All right,” said Edward indifferently. And they went. They reached the doors of the Musée in the grey-brown dusk of a February evening.
One walks along a bare, narrow corridor, much like the entrance to the stalls of the Standard Theatre, and such daylight as there may be fades away behind one, and one finds oneself in a square hall, heavily decorated, and displaying with its electric lights Loie Fuller in her accordion-pleated skirts, and one or two other figures not designed to quicken the pulse.
“It’s very like Madame Tussaud’s,” said Edward.
“Yes,” Vincent said; “isn’t it?”
Then they passed through an arch, and behold, a long room with waxen groups life-like behind glass—the coulisses of the Opéra, Kitchener at Fashoda—this last with a desert background lit by something convincingly like desert sunlight.
“By Jove!” said Edward, “that’s jolly good.”
“Yes,” said Vincent again; “isn’t it?”
Edward’s interest grew. The things were so convincing, so very nearly alive. Given the right angle, their glass eyes met one’s
