“Yes. The Tenth was ordered to Manchester, and they could hardly expect me to go to a place like that. Besides, I found the major monstrous rude.” “How was that?” “He expected me to know about his absurd drill, Tregellis, and I had other things to think of, as you may suppose. I had no difficulty in taking my right place on parade, for there was a trooper with a red nose on a flea-bitten grey, and I had observed that my post was always immediately in front of him. This saved a great deal of trouble. The other day, however, when I came on parade, I galloped up one line and down the other, but the deuce a glimpse could I get of that long nose of his! Then, just as I was at my wits’ end, I caught sight of him, alone at one side; so I formed up in front. It seems he had been put there to keep the ground, and the major so far forgot himself as to say that I knew nothing of my duties.” My uncle laughed, and Brummell looked me up and down with his large, intolerant eyes. “These will do very passably,” said he. “Buff and blue are always very gentlemanlike. But a sprigged waistcoat would have been better.” “I think not,” said my uncle, warmly. “My dear Tregellis, you are infallible upon a cravat, but you must allow me the right of my own judgment upon vests. I like it vastly as it stands, but a touch of red sprig would give it the finish that it needs.” They argued with many examples and analogies for a good ten minutes, revolving round me at the same time with their heads on one side and their glasses to their eyes. It was a relief to me when they at last agreed upon a compromise. “You must not let anything I have said shake your faith in Sir Charles’s judgment, Mr. Stone,” said Brummell, very earnestly. I assured him that I should not. “If you were my nephew, I should expect you to follow my taste. But you will cut a very good figure as it is. I had a young cousin who came up to town last year with a recommendation to my care. But he would take no advice. At the end of the second week I met him coming down St. James’s Street in a snuff-coloured coat cut by a country tailor. He bowed to me. Of course I knew what was due to myself. I looked all round him, and there was an end to his career in town. You are from the country, Mr. Stone?” “From Sussex, sir.” “Sussex! Why, that is where I send my washing to. There is an excellent clear-starcher living near Hayward’s Heath. I send my shirts two at a time, for if you send more it excites the woman and diverts her attention. I cannot abide anything but country washing. But I should be vastly sorry to have to live there. What can a man find to do?” “You don’t hunt, George?” “When I do, it’s a woman. But surely you don’t go to hounds, Charles?” “I was out with the Belvoir last winter.”