Under the goad of this latter uncomfortable suspicion—in two weeks' time it had grown into a conviction—he actually made his way into a milliner's shop and inquired boldly for "feathers."
"What sort of feathers, sir?" inquired the cool, bright-eyed young person who came forward to ask the needs of the tall, professional-looking man wearing glasses and exceedingly shabby brown gloves.
"Why—er—just feathers; the sort ladies wear on hats."
The young person smiled condescendingly. "Something in plumes, sir?" she asked, "or was it coque or marabout you wished to see?"
"Something handsome. Long—er—and not too curly."
The young woman produced a box and opened it.
"How do you like this, sir? Only twenty dollars. Was it for an old lady or a young lady?"
"Er—a young lady," said Mr. Hickey hastily. "That is to say, she——"
"Your wife, perhaps?" and the young person smiled intelligently. "How would your lady like something like this?" And she held up a sweeping plume of a dazzling shade of green. "This is quite the latest swell thing from Paris, sir; can be worn on either a black or a white hat."