"And now, Peterby," said Barnabas, pushing his chair from the
breakfast table, "the first thing I shall require is--a tailor."
"Very true, sir."
"These clothes were good enough for the country, Peterby, but--"
"Exactly, sir!" answered Peterby, bowing.
"Hum!" said Barnabas, with a quick glance. "Though mark you," he
continued argumentatively,--"they might be worse, Peterby; the fit
is good, and the cloth is excellent. Yes, they might be a great deal
worse."
"It is--possible, sir," answered Peterby, with another bow. Hereupon,
having glanced at his solemn face, Barnabas rose, and surveyed
himself, as well as he might, in the tarnished mirror on the wall.
"Are they so bad as all that?" he inquired.
Peterby's mouth relaxed, and a twinkle dawned in his eye.
"As garments they are--serviceable, sir," said he, gravely,
"but as clothes they--don't exist."
"Why then," said Barnabas, "the sooner we get some that do,--the
better. Do you know of a good tailor?"
"I know them all, sir."
"Who is the best--the most expensive?"
"Stultz, sir, in Clifford Street; but I shouldn't advise you to
have him."
"And why not?"
"Because he is a tailor."
"Oh?" said Barnabas.
"I mean that the clothes he makes are all stamped with his
individuality, as it were,--their very excellence damns them. They
are the clothes of a tailor instead of being simply a gentleman's
garments."
"Hum!" said Barnabas, beginning to frown at this, "it would seem
that dress can be a very profound subject, Peterby."
"Sir," answered Peterby, shaking his head, "it is a life study, and,
so far as I know, there are only two people in the world who
understand it aright; Beau Brummell was one, and, because he was the
Beau, had London and the World of Fashion at his feet."
"And who was the other?"
Peterby took himself by the chin, and, though his mouth was solemn,
the twinkle was back in his eye as he glanced at Barnabas.
"The other, sir," he answered, "was one who, until yesterday, was
reduced to the necessity of living upon poached rabbits."
Here Barnabas stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling.
"I remember you told me you were the best valet in the world,"
said he.
"It is my earnest desire to prove it, sir."
"And yet," said Barnabas, with his gaze still turned ceiling-wards,
"I would have you--even more than this, Peterby."
"More, sir?"
"I would have you, sometimes, forget that you are only 'the best
valet in the world,' and remember that you are--a man: one in whom I
can confide; one who has lived in this great world, and felt, and
suffered, and who can therefore advise me; one I may trust to in an
emergency; for London is a very big place, they tell me, and my
friends are few--or none--and--do you understand me, Peterby?"