‘Is that what you’re doing just now?’ I asked, wondering if this was an explanation of the Elizabeth episode.

’Exactly.  It is the only way to build up one’s character.  Now, some people might think me a little careless regarding dress.’

‘The ultra-fastidious might consider you a trifle insouciant, William.’

‘That is one of the points in my character I intend to correct.’  He dived into his pocket as he spoke and produced a brown paper parcel.  William can carry any number of things in his pockets without making his figure look any bulgier or more unsymmetrical than usual.  He boasts that he has at times gone on a three weeks’ walking tour with all the luggage he required for that period disposed about his person, his damp sponge (concealed in the crown of his hat) keeping his head delightfully cool in the heat of the day.

‘What have you got there, William?’ I inquired as he unfolded the parcel.

‘My first step in the evolution of character,’ he replied solemnly, and took out a pair of white spats, and some fawn-coloured gloves.

‘You don’t mean you’re going to wear those?’ gasped Henry.

‘I am—­abhorrent as they are to me,’ rejoined William mournfully.

‘You may call it building up character if you like,’ said Henry shortly, ‘but I call it a lot of damned rot.’  He pulled hard at his cigar, and then added, ’You’re suffering from softening of the brain, my boy, or something of the sort.’

William looked at me in questioning despair, and in that moment my heart softened towards him.  In a flash I understood.  He had so often heard me urge Henry to wear white spats and light-coloured gloves, though all my coercion and entreaty had been in vain.  William had thought by donning these things—­which on him would have a grotesque effect—­he would win my favour.  Poor fellow!  I was quite touched by his devotion, his absolutely hopeless passion.

‘These things wouldn’t be in keeping with the rest of you,’ I said gently; ’they require to be accompanied by all the—­er—­appurtenances of the smart man.’

‘Is—­is—­a beard an appurtenance?’ he asked in a hollow voice.

’Not an appurtenance, William—­perhaps a detriment would be the better word.’

He emitted a sound that was half a groan.  ‘I knew it,’ he said.  ‘Well, what must be, must be, I suppose.’

‘You’re getting profound,’ snorted Henry, who apparently objected to William in his present mood; and he proceeded to distract his attention by touching on a recent stirring debate in the House.  William allowed Henry to talk on unchecked—­your man who indulges in argument abhors that—­and left unusually early for him.

‘That fellow is undoubtedly going off his head,’ commented Henry after his departure.  ‘I wonder what’s wrong with him.’

I smiled rather sadly, and mentally decided that I must cure William of his infatuation for me without delay.