But Adrian laughed in high good humour. "He gave me a hundred pounds on account."
"That won't impress Mr. Jornicroft at all," said I.
"It impressed my tailor, who cashed it, deducting a quarter of his bill."
"Do you mean to say, my dear Adrian," I questioned, "that you went to your tailor with a cheque for a hundred pounds and said, `I want to pay you a quarter of what I owe you, will you give me change?'"
"Of course."
"But why didn't you pass the cheque through your banking account and post him your own cheque?"
"Did you ever hear such an innocent?" he cried gaily. "I wanted to impress him, I did. One must do these things with an air. He stuffed my pockets with notes and gold—there has never been any one so all over money as I am at this particular minute—and then I gave him an order for half-a-dozen suits straight away."
"Good God!" I cried aghast. "I've never had six suits of clothes at a time since I was born."
"And more shame for you. Look!" said he, drawing my wife's attention to my comfortable but old and deliberately unfashionable raiment. "I love you, my dear Barbara, but you are to blame."
"Hilary," said my wife, "the next time you go to town you'll order half-a-dozen suits and I'll come with you to see you do it. Who is your tailor, Adrian?"