Presently, however, when Canon Spratte strolled along Piccadilly on the way to his club, it occurred to him that the day before he had given his tailor an order for two pairs of trousers. His circumstances had taught him neither to spend money recklessly, nor to despise a certain well-bred economy; and it was by no means impossible that he would have no use for those particular articles of clothing. He walked up Savile Row.
“Mr. Marsden, will you inquire whether those garments I ordered yesterday have been cut yet?”
The tailor passed the question down his speaking-tube.
“No, sir,” he said. “Not yet.”
“Then will you delay them till further notice?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Canon Spratte was going out of the shop when he noticed on a fashion plate the costume of a bishop.
“Ah, do you make gaiters, Mr. Marsden?” said he, stopping.
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re very difficult things to cut. So many of my friends wear very ill-fitting gaiters. Fine day, isn’t it? Good-morning.”