"Peter," they said, "has suffered."
"I have an idea," said a man from the colonies. "I know what Peter would like to do."
Peter was racked with headache, and sick with a sense of futility.
"Shut up, you fools," he growled at them.
"Peter is ungrateful after all we have done for him; but we know what Peter would like to do with these pretty things. He would like to wrap them up in a parcel, and send them to St. James' Palace. Won't the Lord Chamberlain be surprised? We will enclose a schedule—List of Garments Discarded by Principal Lady under the Aegis of the Lord Chamberlain at the Oxford Theatre on the Fourteenth Instant."
"There cannot be a schedule," said another wag. "How are we to name these pretty things?"
"Our definitions will be arbitrary. Here, for instance, is a charming trifle, fragrant as flowers in April. Mark it down as 'A Transparency—Precise Function Unknown.'"
"Camisole," suggested a voice.
"Will the expert kindly come forward?"
It seemed hours before Peter, after much perfunctory ribaldry, was left alone with his remorse. The little heap of white garments accused him from the table of rowdiness and vulgarity. They filled his room with the scent of violets, and he remembered now the eyes of the woman he had so rudely frightened.