If Crispin and Madge made the running, David and Eleanor were well up. An afternoon at the dressmaker’s suited Madge down to the ground, but the lady herself made such a dazzling mannequin that David would not have been human if he had found the hours long. In the same way, Crispin shouldered his burdens with the most infectious good humour, continually reducing Miss Cloke to a condition of mirth which verged upon abandon and throwing shop after shop into sniggering confusion. The climax was reached at the hosier’s, when Willoughby suddenly found himself unable to speak anything but the most imperfect English, enthusiastically supported by an excited flow of French. Indeed, but for his solemn promise never to repeat such simulation, their pilgrimages would have ended that day, for, as Eleanor observed that evening— “The laws that seem to govern men’s clothes are difficult enough without any international complications.” Herrick inspired audibly. “That’s a good one,” he said. “I suppose the laws (sic) that govern women’s clothes (sic) require rather less intelligence than does the sucking of eggs. Of course, my office is a complete sinecure. I’m not dressing you at all. Apparently I’m not—not competent. A woman’s headgear alone seems to be a life study. If I make the most patent suggestion, all the women in the place nearly burst themselves with laughter: and when I ask why, the only answer I get is that I ‘shouldn’t like it like that.’ And sometimes Madge adds that ‘the line’ld be wrong.’ And when I ask, ‘What line?’ she says, ‘The line of the hat.’ Not ‘lining,’ mark you, but ‘line.’” “Well, I expect it would.” Herrick put a hand to his head. “‘_Et tu, Brute_,’” he murmured. Then, “Look here. Supposing I was an architect, and you wanted to choose a house. And every one you liked I said, ‘You can’t have that because the point’s wrong.’ And when you said ‘What point?’ I said, ‘The point of the house.’ Well, after about thirty, you’ld want to lie down and scream.” “Your wretched things,” wailed Eleanor, “are every bit as bad. Yesterday I chose a grey suit—at least, I chose the cloth. And I said I’ld bring them the buttons. As it happened, I’d seen some that morning—blue pebble buttons——” “Good God!” said Herrick. “Exactly,” said Eleanor. “That was what Crispin said. And when I asked the cause of the excitement, I was told that I ‘didn’t understand.’ I ask you.” “At least,” said Herrick faintly, “we don’t change our rubric once a year.” “Once a month,” corrected Willoughby. “You wait. How many hats did you get to-day?” “Three,” said David. “One’s a topper—all blue and white straw. Looks as if someone had rolled on it and then bought it half a pint of gooseberries to keep it quiet.” “What?” screamed Eleanor.