“It’s wintry,” said Van Squibber’s man on the morning of the 5th of October.
“Well,” Van Squibber said, sleepily, “what of that? You have your instructions as to the bodily temperature I desire to maintain. Select my clothing, as usual—and mark you, man, yesterday was springy, and you let me go to the club in summery attire. I was two and a half degrees too warm. You are getting careless. What are my engagements to-day?”
“University settlement at eleven, luncheon at the Actors’ at one, drive with the cynical Miss Netherwood at three, five-o’clock tea at four—”
“What?” cried Van Squibber, sharply.
“At fuf—five, I should say, sir,” stammered the embarrassed man.
“Thought so,” said Van Squibber. “Proceed, and be more careful. The very idea of five-o’clock tea at four is shocking.”
“Dinner with the Austrian ambassador at eight, opera at eleven—”
“In October? Opera?” cried Van Squibber.
“Comic,” said the man. “It is Flopper’s last night, sir, and you are to ring down the curtain.”
“True,” said Van Squibber, meditatively—“true; I’d forgotten. And then?”