"Coat—coat—O let me perish!" And the Viscount sank limply into a chair and drooped there in dejection. "Calls it a coat!" he murmured.
"'Tis past its first bloom, I'll allow——"
"Bloom—O stap me!" whispered the Viscount.
"But 'twas a very good coat once——"
"Nay sir, nay, I protest," cried the Viscount, "upon a far, far distant day it may have been a something to keep a man warm, but 'twas never, O never a coat——"
"Indeed, Tom?"
"Indeed, sir, in its halcyon days 'twas an ill dream, now—'tis a pasitive nightmare. Have you any other garment a trifle less gruesome, sir?"
"I have two other suits I think, Sergeant?"
"Three, your honour, there's your d'Oyley stuff suit" (the Viscount groaned), "there's your blue and silver and the black velvet garnished with——"
"Sounds curst funereal, Zeb! O my poor nunky! Go fetch 'em, Sergeant, and let me see 'em—'twill distress and pain me I know but—go fetch 'em!"