When he had finished unpacking, he laid a faded strip of
brightly-coloured cotton on the bed, in company with a soiled jacket and
a tattered silk head-scarf, and, as Shiraz made these preparations,
Coryndon, with the aid of a few pigments in a tin box, altered his face
beyond recognition. He wore his hair longer than that of the average
man, and, taking his hair-brushes, he brushed it back from his temples
and tied a coarse hank of black hair to it, and knotted it at the back
of his head. He dressed quickly, his slight, spare form wound round the
hips with a cotton _loongyi_, and he pulled on the coat over a thin,
ragged vest, and sat down, while Shiraz tied the handkerchief around his
head.

The art of make-up is, in itself, simple enough, but the very much more
subtle art of expression is the gift of the very few. It was hard to
believe that the slightly foreign-looking young man with Oriental eyes
could be the pock-marked, poverty-stricken Burman who stood in his
place.

Slipping on a light overcoat, he pulled a large, soft hat over his head,
and walked out quickly through the veranda.

"Now, then, Shiraz," he called out in a quick, ill-tempered voice. "Come
along with the lamp. Hang it; you know what I mean, the _butti_. These
infernal garden-paths are alive with snakes."

Shiraz hastened after him, cringing visibly, and swinging a hurricane
lamp as he went. When they had got clear of the house and were near the
gate, Coryndon spoke to him in a low voice.