“Yes,” said I, “it's the spring.”
She approached me and brushed a few specks of dust from my shoulder.
“You want a new suit of clothes, Simon.”
“Dear me!” said I, glancing hastily over the blue serge suit in which I had lounged at Mustapha Superieur. “I suppose I do.”
It occurred to me that my wardrobe generally needed replenishing. I had been unaccustomed to think of these things, the excellent Rogers and his predecessors having done most of the thinking for me.
“I'll go to Poole's at once,” said I.
And then it struck me, to my whimsical dismay, that in the present precarious state of my finances, especially in view of my decision to abandon political journalism in favour of I knew not what occupation, I could not afford to order clothes largely from a fashionable tailor.
“I shouldn't have mentioned it,” said Lola apologetically, “but you're always so spick and span.”
“And now I'm getting shabby!”
I threw back my head and laughed at the new and comical conception of Simon de Gex down at heel.