"But you can't call on your tailor in those clothes." "Why not?" I said. "He made the clothes, and the least he can do is to look at them after I've worn them all these years." "Dad's going to London in his old brown suit," said Helen to Rosie, who had just entered the room. "Oh, but he simply _can't_," said Rosie in a shocked voice. "_I_ like the suit," said Peggy. "The trousers are so funny." "They do bag at the knees," I admitted. "But then all sincere and honourable trousers do that. There is, of course, an unmanly variety that never bags and always keeps a crease down its middle, but you wouldn't have me wear those--now would you?" "You can wear what you like," said the lady of the house, "so long as you don't wear what you've got on." "Well," I said with dignity, "I'm not the man to insult an old friend. I shall wear this suit, and, what's more, I shall get my hair cut, too." "That's right; get yourself cropped like a convict." "You ought to be proud," I said, "to have a husband who's got any hair to crop. Some husbands are quite bald." "And some want to look as if they were quite bald." "Very well," I said, "I will give up the hair-cutting. Next week you shall see me in love-locks for the rest of my life." I then went up-stairs and changed into patent leather boots, black tail coat and all that is necessarily associated with a black tail coat. This costume I completed with a top hat extracted from its dim and dusty lair, a dark overcoat, a walking-stick and a pair of gloves. Thus attired I set out for the station. In the garden I found the junior members of the family gathered together to escort me. When they saw me they assumed an air of profound solemnity and doffed imaginary hats in my honour. "He's got his Londons on after all," said Peggy, thus lightly alluding to my serious garments. "Will his lordship deign to take my humble arm?" said Rosie. "John," said Helen brightly, "run on, there's a good boy, and see if they've got out the red carpet. We must certainly knight the station-master." They then formed up as a festal band--mostly big drums--and preceded me to the garden gate, where they scattered and left me with a final cheer. At about 3 o'clock in the afternoon I found myself in the West-end--not, of course, in the whole of it, but in that particular part of it where my tailor has his establishment. Up to that moment I had been eager to see him, but now that I stood before his door all desire had vanished just as a toothache disappears when you get almost within forceps distance of a dentist. However I encouraged myself. "These clothes," I said, "have been waiting for months in a half-sewn state and with makeshift button-holes. They must be put out of their misery. It's to-day or never." My entrance was warmly welcomed: "Try on? Yes, Sir. I'll call Mr. Thurgood. Will you step in here, Sir?"