"If you’re wanting a temporary valet, sir, my son’s out of a place for the moment--through no fault of his own. He’s a very good valet, sir, and soon learns a gentleman’s ways." "Yes," said Edward Henry judiciously. "But could he come at once? That’s the point." And he looked at his watch, as if to imply that another hour without a valet would be more than human nature could stand. "I could have him round here in less than an hour, sir," said the hotel valet, comprehending the gesture. "He’s at Norwich Mews--Berkeley Square way, sir." Edward Henry hesitated. "Very well, then!" he said commandingly. "Send for him. Let me see him." He thought: "Dash it! I’m at Wilkins’s--I’ll be _at_ Wilkins’s!" "Certainly, sir! Thank you very much, sir." The hotel valet was retiring when Edward Henry called him back. "Stop a moment. I’m just going out. Help me on with my overcoat, will you?" The man jumped. "And you might get me a tooth-brush," Edward Henry airily suggested. "And I’ve a letter for the post." As he walked down Devonshire Square in the dark, he hummed a tune: certain sign that he was self-conscious, uneasy, and yet not unhappy. At a small but expensive hosier’s in a side street he bought a shirt and a suit of pajamas, and also permitted himself to be tempted by a special job line of hair-brushes that the hosier had in his fancy department. On hearing the powerful word "Wilkins’s," the hosier promised with passionate obsequiousness that the goods should be delivered instantly. Edward Henry cooled his excitement by an extended stroll, and finally re-entered the outer hall of the hotel at half-past seven, and sat down therein to see the world. He knew by instinct that the boldest lounge suit must not at that hour penetrate further into the public rooms of Wilkins’s. The world at its haughtiest was driving up to Wilkins’s to eat its dinner in the unrivalled restaurant, and often guests staying at the hotel came into the outer hall to greet invited friends. And Edward Henry was so overfaced by visions of woman’s brilliance and man’s utter correctness that he scarcely knew where to look--so apologetic was he for his grey lounge suit and the creases in his boots. In less than a quarter of an hour he appreciated with painful clearness that his entire conception of existence had been wrong, and that he must begin again at the beginning. Nothing in his luggage at the Majestic would do. His socks would not do, nor his shoes, nor the braid on his trousers, nor his cuff-links, nor his ready-made white bow, nor the number of studs in the shirt-front, nor the collar of his coat. Nothing! Nothing! To-morrow would be a full day.