“Have you got my clothes pressed?”
“Aye,” said the tailor.
“Well, unpress 'em again.”
“Eh?” said the tailor.
“Unpress'em. Sit on'em. Roll'em on the floor. Muss'em up. Put all the wrinkles back, just as they were.”
“Mon, ye shud leave the whiskey be,” advised the tailor.
Thereupon Cyrus caught up his neatly creased suit and proceeded to play football with it, after which he put it on and viewed himself with satisfaction.
“And I almost forgot that she wouldn't have any use for me, improved,” he muttered as he wended his way to the little, old friendly house. “Lord, I might have lost my job!”
Any expectation of social diversion at fifty cents an hour which Cyrus the Gaunt may have cherished was promptly quashed on his arrival. It was a very businesslike little sculptor who took him in hand.
“Sit here, please—the right knee farther forward—let the chin drop a little—” and all that sort of thing.