"The truth," Burton repeated.

"Wot yer mean?"

"About the typhoid and that," Burton explained, mildly.

The office-boy pondered for a moment. Then he slowly opened a ledger,
drew a day-book towards him, and continued his work. He was being
jollied, of course, but the thing was too subtle for him at present. He
decided to wait for the next move. Burton continued to regard his
subordinate, however, and by degrees an expression of pained disapproval
crept into his face.

"Clarkson," he said, "if you will forgive my mentioning a purely
personal matter, why do you wear such uncomfortable collars and such an
exceedingly unbecoming tie?"

The office-boy swung round upon his stool. His mouth was wide open like
a rabbit's. He fingered the offending articles.

"What's the matter with them?" he demanded, getting his question out
with a single breath.

"Your collars are much too high," Burton pointed out. "One can see how
they cut into your neck. Then why wear a tie of that particular shade
of vivid purple when your clothes themselves, with that blue and yellow
stripe, are somewhat noticeable? There is a lack of symphony about the
arrangement, an entire absence of taste, which is apt to depress one.
The whole effect which you produce upon one's vision is abominable. You