It was a parlor game at a dinner party, and nothing more. Simply a paltry amusement, the sort of thing that Watson ordinarily reveled in. A color was proposed, and the guests, separating into couples, were to scribble down everything of that color which came into their minds.
He and Mary bent over their paper, trying to think of things that were black.
Mary thinks of panthers, and the plague, which she thinks terribly clever, and the sky at night.
Watson thinks of frock coats, and blackbirds, and mourning dress.
And he does not think of Holmes's hair.
Not once.