He had known better! Very well, then, let him take his medicine. Let
him go as--here he disgustedly eyed the garment that the Greek was
presenting--as Little Lord Fauntleroy! He deserved it.

Shudderingly he looked away from the pretty velvet suit; he scorned
the monk's robes that were too redolent of former wearers; he
rejected the hot livery of a Russian mujik; he flouted the banality
of the Pierrot pantaloons.

Thankfully he remembered McLean. Kilts, that was the thing. Tartans,
the real Scotch plaids. Some use, now, McLean's precious
sporrans.... He'd look him up at once.

Out of the crowded Mograby he made his way on foot to the Esbekeyih
quarters where the streets were wider and emptier of Cairene
traffickers and shrill itinerates and laden camels and jostling
donkeys.

It was a glorious day, a day of Egypt's blue and gold. The sky was a
wash of water color; the streets a flood of molten amber. A little
wind from the north rustled the acacias and blew in his bronzed face
cool reminders of the widening Nile and dancing waves.

He remembered a chap he knew, who had a sailing canoe--but no, he
was going to get a costume for a fool ball!

Disgustedly he turned into the very modern and official-looking
residence that was the home of his friend, Andrew McLean, and the
offices of that far-reaching institution, the Agricultural Bank.