"Laisse-moi!" said he impatiently.
"It will make such a horrid smell, Master," said I.
He threw the garment across the room with a laugh.
"It is true." He stretched himself and waved his arms. "Ah, now I am better. Now I am Paragot. Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot, again. Now I am free from the forms and symbols. Yes, my son. That hat has been to me Luke's iron crown. That coat has been the peine forte et dure crushing my infinite soul into my liver." He tore off his black tie and hurled it away from him. "This has been strangling every noble inspiration. I have been swathed in mummy bands of convention. I have been dead. I have come to life. My lungs are full. My soul regains its limitless horizons. My swollen tongue is cool, and nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu, I can talk again!"
He walked up and down the little salon vociferating his freedom, and kicking the remains of the frock-coat before him. With one of his sudden impulses he picked it up and threw it out of a quickly opened window.
"The sight of it offended me," he explained.
"Master," said I, "where are your other things?"
"What other things?"
"Your luggage—your great coat—your umbrella."
"Why, at Melford," said he with an air of surprise. "Where else should they be?"