He shuddered as he passed the shop-windows for fear he should see his own reflection.

He made his way unfalteringly to an outfitter's shop, and from there, with a bundle under his arm, to the baths.

It was a very different Alfred Burton indeed who, an hour or two later, issued forth into the streets.

Gone was the Cockney young man with the sandy moustache, the cheap silk hat worn at various angles to give himself a rakish air, the flashy clothes, cheap and pretentious, the assured, not to say bumptious air so sedulously copied from the deportment of his employer.

Enter a new and completely transformed Alfred Burton, an inoffensive-looking young man in a neat gray suit, a lilac-colored tie of delicate shade, a flannel shirt with no pretence at cuffs, but with a spotless turned down collar, a soft Homburg hat, a clean-shaven lip.
With a new sense of self-respect and an immense feeling of relief, Burton, after a few moments' hesitation, directed his footsteps towards the National Gallery.