Philip sat at his dressing-table, busy with many pots and his face. He nodded.
"The uncle of Monsieur receives, without doubt?"
"A card-party," said Philip, tracing his eyebrows with a careful hand.
François skipped to the wardrobe and flung it open. With a finger to his nose he meditated aloud.
"The blue and silver ... un peu trop soigné. The orange ... peu convenable. The purple the purple essayons!"
Philip opened the rouge-jar.
"The grey I wore at De Flaubert's last month."
François clapped a hand to his head.
"Ah, sot!" he apostrophised himself. "Voilà qui est très bien." He dived into the wardrobe, emerging presently with the required dress. He laid it on the bed, stroking it lovingly, and darted away to a large chest. From it he brought forth the pink and silver waistcoat that De Bergeret had admired, and the silver lace. Then he paused. "Les bas?... Les bas aux oiseaux-mouches ... où sont-ils?" He peered into a drawer, turning over neat piles of stockings. A convulsion of fury seemed to seize him, and he sped to the door. "Ah, sapristi! Coquin! Jacques!"
In answer to his frenzied call came the cadaverous one, shivering. François seized him by the arm and shook him.