THE PURPLE PILEUS
Mr. Coombes was sick of life. He walked away from his unhappy home, sick not only of his own existence but of everybody else's, turned aside down Gaswork Lane to avoid the town, crossed the wooden bridge that goes over the canal to Starling's Cottages, and was presently alone in the damp pine woods and out of sight and sound of human habitation. He would stand it no longer. He repeated aloud with blasphemies unusual to him that he would stand it no longer.
He was a pale-faced little man, with dark eyes and a fine and very black moustache. He had a very stiff, upright collar slightly frayed, that gave him an illusory double chin, and his overcoat (albeit shabby) was trimmed with astrachan. His gloves were a bright brown with black stripes over the knuckles, and split at the finger ends. His appearance, his wife had said once in the dear, dead days beyond recall—before he married her, that is—was military. But now she called him—it seems a dreadful thing to tell of between husband and wife, but she called him "a little grub." It wasn’t the only thing she had called him, either.
The row had arisen about that beastly Jennie again. Jennie was his wife’s friend, and by no invitation of Mr. Coombes, she came in every blessed Sunday to dinner and made a shindy all the afternoon. She
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