A few minutes later the telephone bell rang, and Oliver answered it and said, “Send him up.”

“Here’s the tailor,” ho remarked, as he hung up the receiver.

“Whose tailor?” asked his brother.

“Yours,” said he.

“Do I have to have some new clothes?” Montague asked.

“You haven’t any clothes at present,” was the reply.

Montague was standing in front of the “costumer,” as the elaborate mirror was termed.  He looked himself over, and then he looked at his brother.  Oliver’s clothing was a little like the Circassian walnut; at first you thought that it was simple, and even a trifle careless—­it was only by degrees you realized that it was original and distinguished, and very expensive.

“Won’t your New York friends make allowance for the fact that I am fresh from the country?” asked Montague, quizzically.

“They might,” was the reply.  “I know a hundred who would lend me money, if I asked them.  But I don’t ask them.”

“Then how soon shall I be able to appear?” asked Montague, with visions of himself locked up in the room for a week or two.

“You are to have three suits to-morrow morning,” said Oliver.  “Genet has promised.”

“Suits made to order?” gasped the other, in perplexity.

“He never heard of any other sort of suits,” said Oliver, with grave rebuke in his voice.

M. Genet had the presence of a Russian grand duke, and the manner of a court chamberlain.  He brought a subordinate to take Montague’s measure, while he himself studied his colour-scheme.  Montague gathered from the conversation that he was going to a house-party in the country the next morning, and that he would need a dress-suit, a hunting-suit, and a “morning coat.”  The rest might wait until his return.  The two discussed him and his various “points” as they might have discussed a horse; he possessed distinction, he learned, and a great deal could be done with him—­with a little skill he might be made into a personality.  His French was not in training, but he managed to make out that it was M. Genet’s opinion that the husbands of New York would tremble when he made his appearance among them.

When the tailor had left, Alice came in, with her face shining from a cold bathing.  “Here you are decking yourselves out!” she cried.  “And what about me?”

“Your problem is harder,” said Oliver, with a laugh; “but you begin this afternoon.  Reggie Mann is going to take you with him, and get you some dresses.”

“What!” gasped Alice.  “Get me some dresses!  A man?”

“Of course,” said the other.  “Reggie Mann advises half the women in New York about their clothes.”

“Who is he?  A tailor?” asked the girl.

Oliver was sitting on the edge of the canape, swinging one leg over the other; and he stopped abruptly and stared, and then sank back, laughing softly to himself.  “Oh, dear me!” he said.  “Poor Reggie!”