“I haven't the money to spend on it; but tell me, don't you like this suit?”
“Well, pretty well; whose is it? Did Walpole make it? Do you deal with him still?”
“Yes, it is one of Walpole's, but I have had it turned.”
“Had it turned? I have heard of turning an overcoat, but a morning coat! I did not know it could be done; that's what makes it look so shaky.”
“Now don't you get laughing at my coat, it looks very well indeed. I suppose you think I am not fit to walk with you. I daresay it doesn't look as smart as yours, which has just come out of Walpole's shop.”
The young men had so much to say, and were so genuinely glad to see each other, that their thoughts hesitated and they were embarrassed.
“I suppose you enjoyed your trip abroad very much,” Willy said drily and punctiliously; “you were more than a year away—nearly eighteen months, I think.”
“About that. I enjoyed myself. I think I liked Italy best; it has been more painted and described than any country, and yet it is quite different from what one imagines; it is grey and dim and green and dusty. It looks—how shall I put it?—it looks worn out and faded.”
“The women aren't worn out and faded if all one hears is true,” said Willy, with a short laugh.
“The women are right enough. I must tell you about them one of these days, lots of stories. There was a little Italian girl I met at Milan. It was a job to get away from her; she followed me, 'pon my word, she did; she declared she would commit suicide. I was awfully frightened. Naples is really too shocking. I'm not a prude, but Naples is really—”