"One M.P. and one Canon,--the rest ordinary, or rather extraordinary men and women. But don't let us talk about it; my stomach's turned as it is. I'm going to take a few days' holiday, Aubrey." St. Maur in his astonishment had to sit down. "Mrs. Delarayne has just been here. Her daughter seems to be an interesting case of self-surrender and inversion of reproductive instinct owing to repeated rebuffs. She is now at the self-immolating stage. Rather dangerous. Falls about. Her knees give way. Might cut her head open. Great struggle for supremacy apparently with flapper sister. Both passionate girls, of course. Only thrown up sponge after hard and unsuccessful fight. Local doctor orders iron, quinine, and strychnine. It's a wonder he didn't order brimstone and treacle. Mother doesn't understand the condition at all, but is sufficiently wise to suspect that the behaviour of a certain young man with fascinating flapper sister may be contributory." "Can't she come here?" asked St. Maur. "Well, she could. But it is one of those cases in which, if I want to do any real good, I must watch conditions on the spot." "When do you leave?" "In an hour or two. The car's coming to fetch me." He rose, looked down with grave disapproval at his baggy trousers, and flicked a speck or two of dust from his jacket. "Aubrey, dear boy, I want you to make me look smart,--do you think it can be managed?" He smiled in his irresistible way, and St. Maur had to laugh too. "You evidently think it quite impossible," he added. "No, not at all, you ass!" St. Maur objected. "I'm always telling you that you can look the smartest man in England if you choose. You fellows who are habitually dowdy create a most tremendous effect when, for once, you really dress in a rational fashion." Lord Henry scratched his head and glanced dubiously down at his clothes again. "I suppose these would do," he said. St. Maur expostulated with scorn. "Where are all your things? You've got some presentable clothes, only you never wear them; or if you do, you wear the wrong ties or the wrong shirts, or the wrong socks with them." "Have you got your crow's nest here?" Lord Henry demanded. St. Maur nodded. "Drive me to the cottage, then," said the elder man, throwing out his arms dramatically, "and get me up to kill!" St. Maur was interested, and showed it in his glance. "Don't be alarmed, dear boy," said Lord Henry. "I may have to play a part down at Brineweald." St. Maur did as he was bid, and the two spent about an hour and a half in Lord Henry's bedroom, sorting out ties, collars, shirts, lounge suits, dress clothes, and boots and shoes.