But that was nothing to the air with which he swept his papers
into the drawer of his desk, brushed away the crumpled sheets upon
which he had figured his balance, and darted to the washstand
behind the narrow partition. Nor could it be compared to the way
in which he stripped off his black bombazine office-coat with its
baggy pockets--quite a disreputable-looking coat I must say--
taking it by the nape of the neck, as if it were some loathsome
object to be got rid of, and hanging it upon a hook behind him;
nor to the way in which he pulled up his shirt sleeves and plunged
his white, long-fingered, delicately modeled hands into the basin,
as if cleanliness were a thing to be welcomed as a part of his
life. These carefully dried, each finger by itself--not forgetting
the small seal ring on the little one--he gave an extra polish to
his glistening pate with the towel, patted his fresh, smooth-
shaven cheeks with an unrumpled handkerchief which he had taken
from his inside pocket, carefully adjusted his white neck-cloth,
refastening the diamond pin--a tiny one but clear as a baby's
tear--put on his frock-coat with its high collar and flaring
tails, took down his silk hat, gave it a flourish with his
handkerchief, unhooked his overcoat from a peg behind the door (a
gray surtout cut something like the first Napoleon's) and stepped
out to where I sat.
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