‘You’d like to see my beard, I expect,’ remarked his host, as they stepped across the threshold. ‘Well, there it is.’ He waved a careless hand towards the centre of the oak-raftered room, where, in a flower-pot that stood in the middle of the table, a grey beard flourished.
Mr. Pardoe scratched his head: sure proof that he was feeling more at home. ‘Now I can’t quite place that,’ he said, reverting to the idea that he was in a dream. ‘The dancing shoes were from Hans Andersen, but this for the moment eludes me.’
‘It’s a good growth,’ said the beard’s owner. ‘Never gives any trouble. Great advantage, not wearing it on the chin. Some of my clients don’t care about a bearded tailor. And to those who do, I say: Step inside. A place for everything and everything in its place, and the place for my beard is the parlour. Very quiet and well-behaved, and drinks far less water than an aspidistra. If it sings too loud I just snip it down a bit with me scissors.’
‘The Singing Beard,’ mused Mr. Pardoe. ‘That must be a public-house sign I’ve come across somewhere.’
‘Now,’ urged the genial tailor, ‘what about a little refreshment. Or would you rather I set about that suit of clothes first?’
The eyes of the abandoned Pardoe sparkled. He visioned a wineglass, the size of a milking-pail, filled with champagne. He felt it against his lips, felt it slip down his dry throat, and sink into his innermost being like a benediction.... He looked at his host with a little shamefaced smile. ‘Well, if it’s all the same to you ... if you’ll excuse my rather unconventional appearance....’
‘Come down to the cellar,’ cried his friend, taking him by the arm, ‘the Cellar of a Thousand Bottles.’ Still gripping Mr. Pardoe, he stamped thirstily on the floor. A trapdoor opened. They shot into the cellar with lightning speed, and before he could remember his manners Mr. Pardoe was knocking the tops off bottles with a skill that in cooler moments would have astounded him.
‘There you are!’ cried the little tailor. ‘Greenwich Time on every label. Look for our trademark and refuse imitations.’ He drank copious draughts. He became confidential, even affectionate. ‘Now that’s the difference between you and me. Your name’s Pardoe. That just shews the difference between you and me. Now my name’s Dionysus,’ he went on, with a radiant smile. ‘It’s a good name. And me father’s name was Dionysus before me. But me grandfather—ah, that’s another story.’
‘And what, my little man, was your grandfather’s name?’ enquired Mr. Pardoe, waving his glass in air.
‘Oh, me grandfather? Were you asking after me grandfather? Ah, his name, don’t you see, was Dionysus. They distinguished us one from the other by our trades. We were tailors, you know, all three of us.’