"WILL you, honour bright?" says Eglantine.

"Honour bright," says the tailor. "Look!" and in an instant he drew
from his pocket one of those slips of parchment which gentlemen of
his profession carry, and putting Eglantine into the proper
position, began to take the preliminary observations. He felt
Eglantine's heart thump with happiness as his measure passed over
that soft part of the perfumer's person.

Then pulling down the window-blind, and looking that the door was
locked, and blushing still more deeply than ever, the tailor seated
himself in an arm-chair towards which Mr. Eglantine beckoned him,
and, taking off his black wig, exposed his head to the great
perruquier's gaze. Mr. Eglantine looked at it, measured it,
manipulated it, sat for three minutes with his head in his hand and
his elbow on his knee, gazing at the tailor's cranium with all his
might, walked round it twice or thrice, and then said, "It's enough,
Mr. Woolsey. Consider the job as done. And now, sir," said he,
with a greatly relieved air--"and now, Woolsey, let us 'ave a glass
of curacoa to celebrate this hauspicious meeting."

The tailor, however, stiffly replied that he never drank in a
morning, and left the room without offering to shake Mr. Eglantine
by the hand: for he despised that gentleman very heartily, and
himself, too, for coming to any compromise with him, and for so far
demeaning himself as to make a coat for a barber.

Looking from his chambers on the other side of the street, that
inevitable Mr. Walker saw the tailor issuing from the perfumer's