He had at least the will power to put out of his head a problem which rippled the smooth current of his thoughts. Only in the luncheon hour did he return to grapple with the projected soul tour. He wished that Heloise had chosen some other venue than Ostend. Ostend in itself was improper, and associated in all respectable minds with licence and luxury. He felt that he might have been a little more firm about Diana staying on at Cheynel Gardens if he himself had not outraged, or contemplated the outrage of convention.... Convention was an ugly word, a bourgeois word.... What he really meant was ... he thought in vain for a synonym. The Ostend idea was a mad idea, and he wondered who had thought of it. At the same time, there was no reason why he should be recognised if he kept away from the quay, where the incoming Continental boats pull in; and, if necessary, he could alter his appearance slightly ... he went hot and cold at the thought. There was something furtive and underhand about the very notion. Diana had made mock of those little smears of sidewhiskers, and he never went to the barber but that individual made some reference to the appendages. He had seriously considered their removal. Especially since Heloise had wondered why he wore them. She thought they made him look rather older than he was. It would be in the nature of a subtle compliment to her if he appeared on The Day clean-shaven. As to the other matter, one did not go to Ostend in a morning coat and top hat. He might wear his sports suit or--but he had a tailor with views, and to this merchant of habit he appealed on his way home. The tailor listened alertly. “If you are going abroad, I should advise a couple of tweed suits. Grey checks are being worn by everybody--a check with a little red in it. No, sir, oh dear, no! Lord Furnisham had a suit of that character only last month, and he, as you know, is a man of taste and refinement. _And_ one of the leading men at the Convocation of Laymen--a dear friend of the Archbishop’s.” Gordon saw the patterns, was panic-stricken by their joviality. And yet.... Who would recognise Gordon Selsbury in a fashionable grey check with a little red in it? “Rather noisy, don’t you think?” he wavered. The tailor smiled tolerantly at a bolt of blue serge. “My clients do not think so,” he said. He was so great a tailor that he had clients. “Very well.” Gordon gave the order. He told himself that he was not committed to the trip. But if he did go, he possessed an outfit. That was a comfort.