"But why didn't you pass the cheque through your banking account and
post him your own cheque?"

"Did you ever hear such an innocent?" he cried gaily. "I wanted to
impress him, I did. One must do these things with an air. He stuffed my
pockets with notes and gold--there has never been any one so all over
money as I am at this particular minute--and then I gave him an order
for half-a-dozen suits straight away."

"Good God!" I cried aghast. "I've never had six suits of clothes at a
time since I was born."

"And more shame for you. Look!" said he, drawing my wife's attention to
my comfortable but old and deliberately unfashionable raiment. "I love
you, my dear Barbara, but you are to blame."

"Hilary," said my wife, "the next time you go to town you'll order
half-a-dozen suits and I'll come with you to see you do it. Who is your
tailor, Adrian?"

He gave the address. "The best in London. And if you go to him on my
introduction--Good Lord!"--it seemed to amuse him vastly--"I can order
half-a-dozen more!"

All this seemed to me, who am not devoid of a sense of humour and an
appreciation of the pleasant flippancies of life, somewhat futile and
frothy talk, unworthy of the author of "The Diamond Gate" and the lover
of Doria Jornicroft. I expressed this opinion and Barbara, for once,
agreed with me.