note, dressed in smooth black, and invariably wearing or carrying, with
the gravity of a funeral mourner, what Addington knew as a "tall hat".
When the weather gave him countenance, he wore a black coat with a cape.
One flashing ring adorned his left hand, and he indulged a barbaric
taste in flowing ties. Seeing Anne, he spoke at once, and if she had not
been prepared for him she must have guessed him to be a man come on a
message of importance. There was conscious emphasis in his voice, and
there needed to be if it was to accomplish anything: a high voice,
strident, and, like the rest of him, somehow suggesting insect life. He
held out his hand and Anne most unwillingly took it.

"Miss French," said he, with no hesitation before her name, "how is
Jeff?"

The mere inquiry set Anne vainly to hoping that he need not come in. But
he gave no quarter.

"I said I'd run over to-night, paper or no paper. I'm frightfully busy,
you know, cruelly, abominably busy. But I just wanted to see Jeff."

"Won't you come in?" said Anne.

Even then he did not abandon his hat. He kept his hold on it, bearing it
before him in a way that made Anne think absurdly of shields and
bucklers. When, in the library, she turned to present him, as if he were
an unpleasant find she had got to vouch for somehow, the men were
already on their feet and Jeff was setting forward a chair. She could
not help thinking it was a clever stage business to release him from the
necessity of shaking hands. But Moore did not abet him in that
informality. His small hand was out, and he was saying in a sharp,
strained voice, exactly as if he were making a point of some kind, an
oratorical point:

"Jeff, my dear fellow! I'm tremendously glad to see you."

Anne thought Jeff might not shake hands with him at all. But she saw him
steal a shamefaced look at Miss Amabel and immediately, as if something
radical had to be done when it came to the friend of a beloved old girl
like her, strike his hand into Moore's, with an emphasis the more
pronounced for his haste to get it over. Moore seemed enraptured at the
handshake and breathless over the occasion. Having begun shaking hands
he kept on with enthusiasm: the colonel, Miss Amabel and Lydia had to
respond to an almost fervid greeting.

Only Choate proved immune. He had vouchsafed a cool: "How are you,
Weedie?" when Moore began, and that seemed all Moore was likely to
expect. Then they all sat down and there was, Lydia d