BOOTS


In the very small hall G.J. gazed at himself in the mirror that was
nearly as large as the bathroom door, to which it was attached, and
which it ingeniously masked.

Although Mrs. Braiding was present, holding his ebony stick, he
carefully examined his face and appearance without the slightest
self-consciousness. Nor did Mrs. Braiding's demeanour indicate that in
her opinion G.J. was behaving in a manner eccentric or incorrect. He
was dressed in mourning. Honestly he did not believe that he looked
anywhere near fifty. His face was worn by the friction of the world,
especially under the eyes, but his eyes were youthful, and his hair
and moustache and short, fine beard scarcely tinged with grey. His
features showed benevolence, with a certain firmness, and they had the
refinement which comes of half a century's instinctive avoidance of
excess. Still, he was beginning to feel his age. He moved more slowly;
he sat down, instead of standing up, at the dressing-table. And he was
beginning also to take a pride in mentioning these changes and in the
fact that he would be fifty on his next birthday. And when talking to
men under thirty, or even under forty, he would say in a tone mingling
condescension and envy: "But, of course, you're young."

He departed, remarking that he should not be in for lunch and might
not be in for dinner, and he walked down the covered way to the
Albany Courtyard, and was approved by the Albany porters as a resident
handsomely conforming to the traditional high standard set by the
Albany for its residents. He crossed Piccadilly, and as he did so he