As soon as we were alone in my sitting-room, I demanded: “What's wrong with me?”
“Nothing—not a thing,” was his answer, in a tone I had a struggle with myself not to resent. “I've never seen any one quite so grand—top hat, latest style, long coat ditto, white buckskin waistcoat, twenty-thousand-dollar pearl in pale blue scarf, white spats, spotless varnish boots just from the varnishers, cream-colored gloves. You will make a hit! My eye, I'll bet she won't be able to resist you.”
I began to shed my plumage. “I thought this was the thing when you're calling on people you hardly know.”
“I should say you'd have to know 'em uncommon well to give 'em such a treat. Rather!”
“What shall I wear?” I asked. “You certainly told me the other day that this was proper.”
“Proper—so it is—too damn proper,” was his answer. “That'd be all right for a bridegroom or a best man or an usher—or perhaps for a wedding guest. It wouldn't do any particular harm even to call in it, if the people were used to you. But—”
“I look dressed up?”
“Like a fashion plate—like a tailor—like a society actor.”
“What shall I wear?”
“Oh, just throw yourself together any old way. Business suit's good enough.”