midnight
whispered Tinker . A tragic figure made its appearance upon the threshold of the inner doorway : Potter , his face set with epic woe , gloom burning in his eyes like the green fire in a tripod at a funeral of state . His plastic hair hung damp and irregular over his white brow -- a wreath upon a tombstone in the rain -- and his garment , from throat to ankle , was a dressing-gown of dead black , embroidered in purple ; soiled , magnificent , awful . Beneath its midnight border were his bare ankles , final testimony to his desperate condition , for only in ultimate despair does a suffering man remove his trousers . The feet themselves were distractedly not of the tableau , being immersed in bedroom shoes of gay white fur shaped in a Romeo pattern ; but this was the grimmest touch of all -- the merry song of mad Ophelia . `` Mr. Potter ! '' the playwright began , `` I -- '' Potter turned without a word and disappeared into the room whence he came .