accessory, from the butterfly that alights above his shirt front to
the jewels planted in his linen, that will not symbolise the mood that
is in him or the occasion of the coming day.

On this, the psychological side of foppery, I know not one so expert
as him whom, not greatly caring for contemporary names, I will call
Mr. Le V. No hero-worshipper am I, but I cannot write without
enthusiasm of his simple life. He has not spurred his mind to the
quest of shadows nor vexed his soul in the worship of any gods. No
woman has wounded his heart, though he has gazed gallantly into the
eyes of many women, intent, I fancy, upon his own miniature there. Nor
is the incomparable set of his trousers spoilt by the perching of any
dear little child upon his knee. And so, now that he is stricken with
seventy years, he knows none of the bitterness of eld, for his toilet-
table is an imperishable altar, his wardrobe a quiet nursery and very
constant harem. Mr. Le V. has many disciples, young men who look to
him for guidance in all that concerns costume, and each morning come,
themselves tentatively clad, to watch the perfect procedure of his
toilet and learn invaluable lessons. I myself, a lie-a-bed, often
steal out, foregoing the best hours of the day abed, that I may attend
that leve'e. The rooms of the Master are in St. James's Street, and
perhaps it were well that I should give some little record of them and
of the manner of their use. In the first room the Master sleeps. He is
called by one of his valets, at seven o'clock, to the second room,
where he bathes, is shampooed, is manicured and, at length, is
enveloped in a dressing-gown of white wool. In the third room is his
breakfast upon a little table and his letters and some newspapers.
Leisurely he sips his chocolate, leisurely learns all that need be
known. With a cigarette he allows his temper, as informed by the news
and the weather and what not, to develop itself for the day. At