“We have come to see the coat,” she said simply. The woman looked at her, almost in pity, it seemed. “There’s another party interested in the coat—You mean the Chinese coat, I suppose?” Eleanor’s face was blank. There was a little catch in her throat. The woman reached down a hand beneath the counter. “We promised to hold it—” She glanced at the clock, and drew out a box. “The other party said he was pretty sure to take it.” Through the tissue-paper a maze of blue and gold showed dimly. She lifted the paper, throwing it back. “I guess I’m the other party,” said Richard More. He stooped forward, smiling a little. “Of course you are!” said Eleanor with a breath of relief. “Of course you are—the ’other party’.” She turned to the woman. “It was my husband wanted to see it,” she said almost proudly. The woman consulted a slip of paper. “Name of ’More’.” she asked. Richard nodded. “Let’s have a look at it.” The woman lifted the garment from the box and flung it wide on the counter before them; and all the color in it glowed softly and the colors that lay on the counter about it glared and seemed hard. “Pretty thing!” said Richard More. He pulled his mustache a little nervously. The woman lifted the coat and shook it out. “Let madam try it on,” she suggested. She came from behind the counter and placed it on Eleanor’s shoulders, smoothing the folds. “It’s not a usual garment—Not every one could wear a garment like that.” She moved back a little, gazing with half-closed eyes. “It suits madam perfectly!” The husband surveyed it. “Turn around,” he commanded. Eleanor turned and moved from him down the cleared space to the mirror. And he was conscious of something remote in her movements. She seemed to withdraw, to hold herself removed, wrapped in the blue and gold folds of the coat. He moved after her and she turned and faced him. “It’s all right!” he said approvingly. He half put out his hand to touch an end of blue sleeve that trailed away to a tasselled cord.... Then he withdrew his hand. “It’s all right!” he repeated vaguely. The clerk came forward and lifted the tassel and let it fall in place; her fingers sprayed over the garment in an easy, official way. “How much is it?” asked Richard More. She consulted the tag hanging on a bit of gold cord in front. She dropped it. “Ninety-five dollars,” she said indifferently. She stooped to arrange a fold of the coat. Eleanor More turned a little. She seemed to gaze down with wide, reproachful eyes at the woman’s bent form. Her husband’s tone was crisp. “We understood the price was—less than that,” he said. The woman straightened herself and looked at him. “That was last month—for the sale. It was marked down.” “And now it’s marked up, is it?” he asked a little cynically.