‘Have you got—­’ he began.  ‘Ah, those’ll do!’ He pointed to two hairy plush beehive bonnets, one magenta, the other a conscientious electric blue.  ’How much, please?  I’ll take them both, and that bunch of peacock feathers, and that red feather thing.’  It was a brilliant crimson-dyed pigeon’s wing.

‘Now I want some yards of muslin with a nice, fierce pattern, please.’  He got it—­yellow with black tulips—­and returned heavily laden.

‘Sorry to have kept you,’ said he.  ’Now we’ll go to my quarters to change and beautify.’

We came to them—­opposite a dun waste of parade-ground that might have been Mian Mir—­and bugles as they blew and drums as they rolled set heart-strings echoing.

We hoisted the boys out and arranged them on chairs, while Wontner changed into uniform, but stopped when he saw me taking off my jacket.

‘What on earth’s that for?’ said he.

‘Because you’ve been wearing my evening things,’ I said.  ’I want to get into ’em again, if you don’t mind.’

‘Then you aren’t a reporter?’ he said.

‘No,’ I said, ‘but that shan’t part us.’

‘Oh, hurry!’ cried Eames in desperate convulsions.  ’We can’t stand this much longer.  ‘Tisn’t fair on the young.’

‘I’ll attend to you in good time,’ said Wontner; and when he had made careful toilet, he unwrapped the bonnets, put the peacock’s feather into the magenta one, pinned the crimson wing on the blue one, set them daintily on the boys’ heads, and bade them admire the effect in his shaving-glass while he ripped the muslin into lengths, bound it first, and draped it artistically afterwards a little below their knees.  He finished off with a gigantic sash-bow, obi fashion.  ‘Hobble skirts,’ he explained to Stalky, who nodded approval.

Next he split open the bottom of each sack so that they could walk, but with very short steps.  ‘I ought to have got you white satin slippers,’ he murmured, ‘and I’m sorry there’s no rouge.’

‘Don’t worry on our account, old man—­you’re doing us proud,’ said Bobby from under his hat.  ‘This beats milk-punch and mayonnaise.’

‘Oh, why didn’t we think of these things when we had him at our mercy?’ Eames wailed.  ’Never mind—­we’ll try it on the next chap.  You’ve a mind, Claus.’

’Now we’ll call on ’em at Mess,’ said Wontner, as they minced towards the door.

‘I think I’ll call on your Colonel,’ said Stalky.  ’He oughtn’t to miss this.  Your first attempt?  I assure you I couldn’t have done it better myself.  Thank you!’ He held out his hand.

‘Thank you, sir!’ said Wontner, shaking it.  ’I’m more grateful to you than I can say, and—­and I’d like you to believe some time that I’m not quite as big a—­’

‘Not in the least,’ Stalky interrupted.  ’If I were writing a confidential report on you, I should put you down as rather adequate.  Look after your geishas, or they’ll fall!’