“Well now, Fletcher, you don’t like look an angel, but that’s exactly what you are. I’ll have the beard cut away entirely, but leave the moustache where it is; and if you give me the hair-crop of a British general, why, I’ve nothing more to ask in this life.”
“Very good, sir,” consented the admirable Fletcher.
When the task was finished, and John looked at the result in the mirror, he absent-mindedly thrust his hand into his pocket, but brought it forth empty. Fletcher was regarding him with admiration.
“By Jove!” cried the young man, “I haven’t got a sou markee on me; but I won’t forget you, Fletcher. I’ll see you later, as we say out West, and you won’t lose by it.”
“Well, sir, I think I remember you now, sir; and if I may make so bold as to say it, sir, I’m already in your debt. Her Ladyship—I mean, Miss Berrington—being as she was thrown from her horse, sir, and you ’andy to ’elp ’er, you got the right kind of introduction, after all, sir.”
“Ah, Fletcher, it seems like it, doesn’t it?”
CHAPTER XVII—TO THE SOUND OF THE SILVER CHIME
A GREAT deal of nonsense has been written about the inartistic qualities of the modern man’s evening clothes. The truth is that no other costume so befits a stalwart, good-looking young fellow. It is in plain black and white, and affects none of the effeminacy of lace and ruffles and colour which made a fop of the dandy centuries ago. There is a manly dignity about dinner-dress which nothing else can give, except perhaps a suit of armour, but armour, unless it be chain mail, develops inconveniences at table.