“You will have your joke, sir. I’ll put ‘Mr. Stuart.’”
“But I have told you my name,” said Alistair. “You can see it on my coat if you like.”
He slipped off the light overcoat he was wearing, and gravely exhibited to the eyes of the wondering shopman the tailor’s parchment label, on which his name and rank were clearly legible.
“I beg your lordship’s pardon, I’m sure,” stammered the man. “It’s so seldom that our clients give us their real names that I thought your lordship was pretending. The address, please?”
“Care of Miss Finucane, Elm Side, Chelsea.”
The shopman, scarcely able to believe his ears, wrote down the address with an amazement which he made no attempt to conceal. As he handed over the ticket he asked:
“Would your lordship like a cheap watch to wear while this is with us?”
“Thanks, no,” said Alistair, with easy indifference. “Time is of no consequence to me just now—I am a bankrupt.”
He strolled out of the shop, charmed with his victory over the hateful traditions of hypocrisy and self-shame embodied in the pawnbroker. In his exhilaration he could have challenged the whole middle class.
His spirits rose steadily as he came to the terminus, and he lavished half a crown on the porter who carried his light dressing-case to the railway-carriage.