Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. They then took off their boots, and crept stealthily up stairs, treading upon the point of their toes so cautiously, that not a board creaked beneath their weight. Her new husband was pleased to watch the astonished look on her face as tray after tray appeared on the grand table, each better than the next. Don't be alarmed by their manners, Mr. Sheppard, returning his embrace with all a parent's tenderness. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. She was asked to meet him after his game Saturday afternoon. A stiff, formally-cut coat of cinnamon-coloured cloth, with rows of plate buttons, each of the size of a crown piece, on the sleeves, pockets, and skirts, reached the middle of his legs; and his costume was completed by the silver-hilted sword at his side, and the laced hat under his left arm. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910.
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