Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. Anna sat with the face of a Sphinx— waiting. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. “For instance?” She smiled. 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. But she no longer felt Jacomo’s age, even if she looked it. Scarcely had it come to a halt, when a stalwart man shouldered his way, in spite of their opposition, through the lines of soldiery to the cart, and offered his large horny hand to the prisoner. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine.
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