The clock struck half-past ten. He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair. “You are late,” she murmured. She had thought to wear it now, since she must look more the demoiselle. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. But in that reservation it may be she went a little beyond the converse of his view. Anyhow, she’s disappeared for some reason or other. “She was the High Priestess who turned me in Greece, before Rome.
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