McTaggart hunted for a phrase.
"Non capisco." He looked triumphant and immediately old Beppo smiled and fell back on pantomime.
He turned and took from Mario a long garment in thin batiste, embroidered at the neck and wrist, with a breast-pocket where a monogram was worked beneath a tiny coronet.
McTaggart struggled with his mirth. It was evident that his own luggage had been delayed at the closed Customs. This was a relic of his Uncle, destined for his use that night.
Mario bowed and disappeared to return with a small jug of hot water, ivory brushes and other articles destined for his master's toilette.
Solemnly he arranged the room while Beppo cleared the supper table. Then, to McTaggart's vast relief, both men wished him "good repose."
He locked the door and hastily slipped out of his remaining clothes, proceeding to encase himself in the ridiculous thin night-shirt.
"Can't say much for my Uncle's taste!—it's only fit for a ballet dancer!" He caught sight of himself in the glass and chuckled with a faint disgust. The batiste strained on his broad chest and beneath the folds his legs appeared, long and sinewy. He shivered.
"Brr!—this is the limit!"
He drew it up above his knees and gingerly clambered on to his bed; snuggled down among the pillows, thankful for the eider down.