“Yes, you may well stare. Why, you know yourself if you buy a woman a bracelet it runs away with a month’s allowance. But, talking of clothes, you’ll have to get better than those things, if you ever want me to be seen with you.”
“These are quite new,” murmured Matt, in alarm.
“And original,” added Herbert. “I’ll have to introduce you to my tailor.”
“Is—is he dear?” Matt stammered.
“If you pay him,” said Herbert, dryly.
“Oh, I always pay,” protested Matt.
“You’re lucky. I have to economize.”
Matt thought suddenly of William Gregson with a throb of gratitude. At least his wardrobe boasted of unimpeachable boots. Then he suddenly espied a small battalion of foot-gear ranged against a wall—black boots, brown boots, patent shoes, brown shoes, boots with laces, boots with beautiful buttons—and he relapsed into his primitive humility. Uneasy lest Herbert should insist on equipping him similarly, he was glad to remember that Herbert’s mother was expecting her boy, and with a murmur to that effect rose to go.
“Nonsense!” said Herbert, “I’m not due till dinner-time; but if you must be going, I think I’ll just stroll a little. You go towards Oxford Street, don’t you?”
“Ye-es,” faltered Matt, who was a little frightened at the idea that his dainty cousin might accompany him to his lodging.