'My dear creature,' returned his companion, 'disguise is the spice of
life. What is life, passionately exclaimed a French philosopher, without
the pleasures of disguise? I don't say it's always good taste, and
I know it's unprofessional; but what's the odds, downhearted
drawing-master? It has to be. We have to leave a false impression on
the minds of many persons, and in particular on the mind of Mr Gideon
Forsyth--the young gentleman I know by sight--if he should have the bad
taste to be at home.'

'If he be at home?' faltered the artist. 'That would be the end of all.'

'Won't matter a d--,' returned Michael airily. 'Let me see your clothes,
and I'll make a new man of you in a jiffy.'

In the bedroom, to which he was at once conducted, Michael examined
Pitman's poor and scanty wardrobe with a humorous eye, picked out a
short jacket of black alpaca, and presently added to that a pair of
summer trousers which somehow took his fancy as incongruous. Then, with
the garments in his hand, he scrutinized the artist closely.

'I don't like that clerical collar,' he remarked. 'Have you nothing
else?'

The professor of drawing pondered for a moment, and then brightened;
'I have a pair of low-necked shirts,' he said, 'that I used to wear in
Paris as a student. They are rather loud.'

'The very thing!' ejaculated Michael. 'You'll look perfectly beastly.
Here are spats, too,' he continued, drawing forth a pair of those