“Godfrey doesn’t approve of garments not made to the precise measurements of the individual human figure. He’ll take you to his tailor and hosier and hatter and rig you out properly. He knows what’s right and I don’t. When can you do it? The sooner the better.”
“I’ll see what my engagements are,” said Godfrey stiffly.
“That’s right,” cried Baltazar. “Telephone me this evening. His time’s yours. Get him all he wants. Brushes, combs, shirts, pyjamas, boots. You know.”
He wrung his hand, waved his hat to Marcelle and marched off with Quong Ho.
Godfrey regarded the retreating figures speechless. Then he turned to Marcelle.
“Of all the cool cheek! Without by your leave or with your leave! I’m to cart this infernal Chinee about Bond Street. My God! My tailor will have a fit.”
“So long as Quong Ho gets one, it doesn’t matter,” laughed Marcelle.
But he was in no humour for pleasantry. He dug his crutch viciously in the ground as he walked.
“He takes it for granted that I’d love to be saddled with this scarecrow of a Chinaman. Don’t you see? It’s preposterous. My God! I’ve a jolly good mind to set him up regardless, like a pre-war nut—with solid silver boot-trees and the rest to correspond. It would serve J. B. right.”
Said Marcelle with a sidelong glance—in her Sister’s uniform she looked very demure—