Now the chance use of that language, no less than his perfect accent, went a long way toward removing the manager's suspicions. A boy who was so well educated must be quite out of the common. Perhaps some eccentric parent or guardian encouraged him to act independently thus early in life. He might be the son of a rich man coming to London for a special course of study. The name, Anson, was an aristocratic one. But his clothes—they were odd. Good enough, but not the right thing.
"Will you oblige me by recommending a good tailor?" said Philip. "I need a complete outfit of wearing apparel, and it will save me a lot of trouble if somebody will tell me exactly what to buy and where to buy it."
His uncanny trick of thought reading disconcerted the manager greatly. Undoubtedly the boy was a puzzle. Never had this experienced man of the world met anyone more self-possessed, more direct, and yet, with it all, exceedingly polite.
"I take it that you want the best?" he inquired, pleasantly.
"Yes."
"Are you lunching in the hotel?"
"I would like something sent here, if you please, and, there again, your advice will be most gratefully accepted."
The manager felt that a generation was growing up of which he knew nothing, but he simply answered:
"I will see to it. Do you—er—take wine?"
Philip laughed, that pleasant whole-souled laugh of his which instantly secured him friends.