She laughed nervously, but kept her eyes averted. “Let me see,” he said. It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated. He wished he had the time to solve this riddle, for it was a riddle, and four-square besides. 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. Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. “You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is.
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