“I’m sorry, Hugo, really I am. Poor little Shirley. But I am feeling very ill myself. Call me an ambulance, Hugo.”
“Pyjamas first, my honey. Ah, here we are! Ho there, Mr. Sleep! Ho there, Mr. Sluis! Shop!”
For by this time the two gentlemen had arrived within the establishment of Messrs. Sleep and Sluis, gents’ shirt-makers, which is situate where the Piccadilly Arcade swoops falcon-like into Jermyn Street to be as a temptation to mugs in search of a manicure. Mr. Sleep was a small man with a round face who was a tie-specialist and Mr. Sluis was a small man with a long face who was a shirt-specialist, while both were accomplished students of masculine lingerie in every branch and could, moreover, as was told in the adventure of the Princess Baba, build a white waistcoat about a waist in a way that was a wonder to the eye. By Royal Appointment, and rightly.
“My lord,” said Mr. Sleep, stepping forward two paces and standing smartly at ease, “what can we do for you this morning? These new ties,” said he, “have just this moment come in. They are delicious.”
“Mr. Sleep,” said Lord Tarlyon, “you know very well that I detest new ties. I can think of nothing more common than wearing a new tie. Observe my tie, Mr. Sleep. I have worn it six years. Observe its rugged grandeur. Where is Mr. Sluis this morning?”
“My lord,” said Mr. Sluis, stepping forward three paces and bowing smartly from his self-made waist, “what sort of pyjamas do you fancy?”
“What varieties have you this morning, Mr. Sluis?”
“We have many, my lord. Pyjamas can be used for various purposes.”
“You shock me, Mr. Sluis. I am not, however, going to Venice just yet. I merely want some pneumonia pyjamas.”
“In crêpe-de-chine, my lord?”