Craig dined at the Secretary of State’s that night, and reveled in the marked consideration every one showed him.  He knew it was not because of his political successes, present and impending; in the esteem of that fashionable company his success with Margaret overtopped them.  And while he was there, drinking more than was good for him and sharing in the general self-complacence, he thought so himself.  But waking up about three in the morning, with an aching head and in the depths of the blues, the whole business took on again its grimmest complexion.  “I’ll talk it over again with Grant,” he decided, and was at the Arkwright house a few minutes after eight.

It so happened that Grant himself was wakeful that morning and had got up about half-past seven.  When Craig came he was letting his valet dress him.  He sent for Craig to come up to his dressing-room.  “You can talk to me while Walter shaves me,” said Grant from the armchair before his dressing table.  He was spread out luxuriously and Josh watched the process of shaving as if he had never seen it before.  Indeed, he never had seen a shave in such pomp and circumstance of silver and gold, of ivory and cut glass, of essence and powder.

“That’s a very ladylike performance for two men to be engaged in,” said he.

“It’s damn comfortable,” answered Grant lazily.

“Where did you get that thing you’ve got on?”

“This gown?  Oh, Paris.  I get all my things of that sort there.  Latterly I get my clothes there, too.”  “I like that thing,” said Craig, giving it a patronizing jerk of his head.  “It looks cool and clean.  Linen and silk, isn’t it?  Only I’d choose a more serviceable color than white.  And I’d not have a pink silk lining and collar in any circumstances.”

He wandered about the room.

“Goshalimity!” he exclaimed, peering into a drawer.  “You must have a million neckties.  And”—­he was at the partly open door of a huge closet—­“here’s a whole roomful of shirts—­and another of clothes.”  He wheeled abruptly upon the smiling, highly-flattered tenant of the arm-chair.  “Grant, how many suits have you got?”

“Blest if I know.  How many, Walter?”

“I really cannot say, sir.  I know ’em all, but I never counted ’em.  About seventy or eighty, I should say, not counting extra trousers.”

Craig looked astounded.  “And how many shirts, Walter?”

“Oh, several hundred of them, sir.  Mr. Grant’s most particular about his linen.”

“And here are boots and shoes and pumps and gaiters and Lord knows what and what not—­enough to stock a shoe-store.  And umbrellas and canes—­Good God, man!  How do you carry all that stuff round on your mind?”

Grant laughed like a tickled infant.  All this was as gratifying to his vanity as applause to Craig’s.  “Walter looks after it,” said he.