“They aren’t the right colour for me,” said Usk, tossing down the long Dundreary whiskers which had been selected to match Nicholson’s sandy hair. “I’m sure I shall look enough of an ass without them. Where in the world did you get such checks?” “Horse-blanket,” responded Nicholson, breathlessly but proudly. “Tasty, isn’t it? I thought when I chose it I should make a sensation, but now I know what the French believe about us, I’m certain it will fall flat. People will only say, ‘That English fellow has no business to come in his ordinary clothes.’” “Ordinary!” gasped Usk, from the adjoining room, where he was arraying himself rapidly in the scarlet and yellow checked knickerbockers, the orange tawny Norfolk jacket, the golf-stockings combining all the colours of the rainbow, and the aggressive sun-helmet, surrounded by a white puggaree striped with red and blue, which Nicholson considered would enable the French populace to identify the typical Englishman so dear to their hearts. Football boots and an alpenstock completed the costume, and when Usk had donned the orthodox velvet mask, Nicholson lay back upon his pillows, and laughed and coughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” he gasped. “I shouldn’t have realised the effect half as well on myself. You might have stepped out of ‘Le Rire,’ except for your modest air of uneasiness. Swagger a bit, and grind your teeth. Walk as if the whole earth belonged to you. And do put on the whiskers. They’ll look all the funnier with your dark moustache.”