"Here's the tailor," ho remarked, as he hung up the receiver.

"Whose tailor?" asked his brother.

"Yours," said he.

"Do I have to have some new clothes?" Montague asked.

"You haven't any clothes at present," was the reply.

Montague was standing in front of the "costumer," as the elaborate
mirror was termed. He looked himself over, and then he looked at his
brother. Oliver's clothing was a little like the Circassian walnut;
at first you thought that it was simple, and even a trifle
careless--it was only by degrees you realized that it was original
and distinguished, and very expensive.

"Won't your New York friends make allowance for the fact that I am
fresh from the country?" asked Montague, quizzically.

"They might," was the reply. "I know a hundred who would lend me
money, if I asked them. But I don't ask them."

"Then how soon shall I be able to appear?" asked Montague, with
visions of himself locked up in the room for a week or two.

"You are to have three suits to-morrow morning," said Oliver. "Genet
has promised."