"This gown? Oh, Paris. I get all my things of that sort there. Latterly I get my clothes there, too."
"I like that thing," said Craig, giving it a patronizing jerk of his head. "It looks cool and clean. Linen and silk, isn't it? Only I'd choose a more serviceable color than white. And I'd not have a pink silk lining and collar in any circumstances."
He wandered about the room.
"Goshalimity!" he exclaimed, peering into a drawer. "You must have a million neckties. And"—he was at the partly open door of a huge closet—"here's a whole roomful of shirts—and another of clothes." He wheeled abruptly upon the smiling, highly-flattered tenant of the armchair. "Grant, how many suits have you got?"
"Blest if I know. How many, Walter?"
"I really cannot say, sir. I know 'em all, but I never counted 'em. About seventy or eighty, I should say, not counting extra trousers."
Craig looked astounded. "And how many shirts, Walter?"
"Oh, several hundred of them, sir. Mr. Grant's most particular about his linen."
"And here are boots and shoes and pumps and gaiters and Lord knows what and what not—enough to stock a shoe-store. And umbrellas and canes—Good God, man! How do you carry all that stuff round on your mind?"
Grant laughed like a tickled infant. All this was as gratifying to his vanity as applause to Craig's. "Walter looks after it," said he.