"To look at one?" The author of the Booklets clicked his tongue once more. "You are drivelling, Mullett. Never drivel—it is dissipation of energy."
"It's quite true, Mr. Beamish. He has never spoken to this young lady—only looked at her."
"Explain yourself."
"Well, sir, it's like this. I'd noticed for some time past that Mr. Finch had been getting what you might call choosey about his clothes...."
"What do you mean, choosey?"
"Particular, sir."
"Then say particular, Mullett. Avoid jargon. Strive for the Word Beautiful. Read my booklet on Pure English. Well?"
"Particular about his clothes, sir, I noticed Mr. Finch had been getting. Twice he had started out in blue with the invisible pink twill and then suddenly stopped at the door of the elevator and gone back and changed into the dove-grey. And his ties, Mr. Beamish. There was no satisfying him. So I said to myself 'Hot dog!'"
"You said what?"
"Hot dog, Mr. Beamish."