“The truth is that you can’t very well dress in the height of fashion,” commented Vidal, contemplating his cousin’s wardrobe. “A fine pair of dancing slippers,” he added, lifting up a misshapen, mud-caked boot by the laces and holding it comically aloft the better to observe it. “The latest style worn by sewer-men. As to socks, none; drawers, the same, of the same cloth as the socks. You’re splendidly outfitted!”
“As you see.”
“But you can’t stay here for ever. You’ve got to get out. I’ll fetch you some of my own clothes. I think they’ll fit you.”
“Yes. You’re a bit taller.”
“Very well. Wait a moment.”
Vidal left the room and soon returned with some of his own clothes. Manuel dressed hastily. The trousers were somewhat too long for him and had to be rolled up at the bottom; on the other hand, the shoes were not high enough, and were tight.
“You have a small foot,” murmured Manuel. “You were born to be a gentleman.”
Vidal thereupon thrust forward his well-shod foot with a certain feminine pride.
“Some young women would give a great deal to have a pair of pinreles[5] like these, wouldn’t they? I don’t like a woman with big feet. Do you?”
“I? My boy, I like them all sizes, even the old ones. There’s so little to choose from.... Give me a newspaper, will you. I want to wrap up these precious garments of mine.”