On the thirty-first of May he went to sleep utterly and completely miserable. On the first of June he woke hopeless and unrefreshed.
And then the miracle came.
Prichard, the ex-butler who valeted all the young gentlemen in the house where Philip had taken chambers, brought him his breakfast. As he placed the eggs and muffins on the tables to Philip it seemed as though Prichard had said: “I am sorry he is leaving us. The next gentleman who takes these rooms may not be so open-handed. He never locked up his cigars or his whiskey. I wish he'd give me his old dress-coat. It fits me, except across the shoulders.”
Philip stared hard at Prichard; but the lips of the valet had not moved. In surprise and bewilderment, Philip demanded:
“How do you know it fits? Have you tried it on?”
“I wouldn't take such a liberty,” protested Prichard. “Not with any of our gentlemen's clothes.”
“How did you know I was talking about clothes,” demanded Philip. “You didn't say anything about clothes, did you?”
“No, sir, I did not; but you asked me, sir, and I—”
“Were you thinking of clothes?”
“Well, sir, you might say, in a way, that I was,” answered the valet. “Seeing as you're leaving, sir, and they're not over-new, I thought...”