t with lavender water, and to this fact owed,
perhaps, his immunity from the post of foreman on the jury--for, say what
you will about the English, they have a deep instinct for affairs.

He found himself second in the front row of the jury box, and through the
odour of "Sanitas" gazed at the judge's face expressionless up there, for
all the world like a bewigged bust. His fellows in the box had that
appearance of falling between two classes characteristic of jurymen. Mr.
Bosengate was not impressed. On one side of him the foreman sat, a
prominent upholsterer, known in the town as "Gentleman Fox." His dark
and beautifully brushed and oiled hair and moustache, his radiant linen,
gold watch and chain, the white piping to his waistcoat, and a habit of
never saying "Sir" had long marked him out from commoner men; he
undertook to bury people too, to save them trouble; and was altogether
superior. On the other side Mr. Bosengate had one of those men, who,
except when they sit on juries, are never seen without a little brown
bag, and the appearance of having been interrupted in a drink. Pale and
shiny, with large loose eyes shifting from side to side, he had an
underdone voice and uneasy flabby hands. Mr. Bosengate disliked sitting
next to him. Beyond this commercial traveller sat a dark pale young man
with spectacles; beyond him again, a short old man with grey moustache,
mutton chops, and innumerable wrinkles; and the front row was completed
by a chemist. The three immediately behind, Mr. Bosengate did not
thoroughly master; but the three at the end of the second row he learned
in their order of an oldish man in a grey suit, given to winking; an
inanimate person with the mouth of a moustachioed codfish, over whose
long bald crown three wisps of damp hair were carefully arranged; and a
dried, dapperish, clean-shorn man, whose mouth seemed terrified lest it
should be surprised without a smile. Their first and second verdicts were
recorded without the necessity for withdrawal, and Mr. Bosengate was
already sleepy when the third case was called. The sight of khaki
revived his drooping attention. But what a weedy-looking specimen! This
prisoner had a truly nerveless pitiable dejected air. If he had ever had
a military bearing it had shrunk into him during his confinement. His
ill-shaped brown tunic, whose little brass buttons seemed trying to keep
smiling, struck Mr. Bosengate as ridiculously short, used though he was