Brock good-naturedly.

"I daresay," said her husband cheerfully. "She's your wife in public
only. By the way, you'll have to get used to the name of Roxbury. Don't
look around as if you expected to find me standing behind your back when
she says, 'Roxbury, dear!' I shan't be there, you know. She'll mean you.
Don't forget that."

"Oh, I say," exclaimed Brock, halting abruptly, and staring in dismay at
the confident conspirator, "will I have to wear a suit of clothes like
that, and an eyeglass, and--and--good Lord! spats?"

"By Jove, you shall wear this very suit!" cried Medcroft, inspired.
"We're of a size, and it won't fit you any better than it does me. Our
clothes never fit us in London. Clever idea of yours, Brock, to think of
it. And, here! We'll stop at this shop and pick up a glass. You can
have all day for practice with it. And, I say, Brock, don't you think
you can cultivate a--er--little more of an English style of speech? That
twang of yours won't--"

"Heavens, man, I'm to be a low comedian, too," gasped Brock, as he was
fairly pushed onto the shop. Three minutes later they were on the
sidewalk, and Brock was in possession of an object he had scorned most
of all things in the world,--a monocle.

Arm in arm, they sauntered into the Ritz. Medcroft retained his clasp on
his friend's elbow as they went up in the lift, after the fashion of one
who fears that his victim is contemplating flight. As they entered the
comfortable little sitting-room of the suite, a young woman rose
gracefully from the desk at which she had been writing. With perfect