“Why, to dress for the procession.”
“Stuff and nonsense! You are quite right as you are,” cried Glyn half-mockingly. “You must learn to remember that you are in England, where nobody dresses up except soldiers. Why, what were you going to do?”
“I was going to put on a white suit and belt.”
“Nonsense!” cried Glyn. “This isn’t India, but Devonshire. Why, if you were to come down dressed like that the boys would all laugh at you, and the crowd out in the road shout and cheer.”
“Well, of course,” said Singh; “they’d see I was a prince.”
“Oh, what a rum fellow you are!” cried Glyn, gripping his companion’s shoulders and laughingly shaking him to and fro. “I thought that I had made you understand that now we are over here you were to dress just the same as an English boy. Why, don’t you know that when we had a king in England he used to dress just like any ordinary gentleman, only sometimes he would wear a star on his breast.”
“Oh, but surely,” began Singh, in a disappointed tone, “he must have—”
“Yes, yes, yes; sometimes,” cried Glyn. “I know what you mean. On state occasions, or when he went to review troops, he would wear grand robes or a field-marshal’s uniform.”
“But didn’t he wear his crown?”
“No,” cried Glyn, bursting out laughing. “That’s only put on for a little while when he’s made king.”