The evening fog draped over the surface of the Thames River like a light veil, and the gas lamp posts on both sides of Whitehall lit up with a dim glow.
Henry Blackwell stepped out of the Foreign Office residence, watching as his smiling colleagues were picked up one by one by four-wheeled carriages, rolling away with laughter toward restaurants near Charing Cross or gentlemen's clubs on St. James Street.
He looked at these dazzling colleagues, then lowered his head to glance at himself.
His tailcoat seemed decent at first glance, but on closer inspection, the cuffs had long since worn white, and the buttons shone with wear.
The bowler hat he wore was bought on sale last Christmas, and the edges had become frayed because of several douses of rain.
Seeing this, Blackwell instinctively adjusted his cravat, not to tidy his appearance, but to cover the collar that had yellowed from repeated ironing.
