I
Dennis Montague of Toronto emerged from his bath, glowing and
talkative. A luxurious deep-blue dressing-gown was wrapped about his
form, its color accentuating the gray-blue of his eyes. His valet stood
beside his bed, on which there reposed a set of garments suitable for a
gentleman bent on spending an evening out.
"Ah, Sylvester! That's right. We poor devils must look as well as the
abominable fashions will permit. Did you ever wonder why the men of
to-day are so commonplace? It is the clothes they wear."
Mr. Sylvester took the dressing-gown and hung it in the closet.
"For instance, my dear fellow, to-night I am in a devilishly brilliant
mood; almost any moment now I might say something clever. If I had my
way, I should dress in scarlet, like a toreador, and when I spoke, my
sentences would have something of the dart about them.... Such would be
the fusion of temperament and costume. Instead of which--by the way,
mix me a cocktail--I am forced to put on this hideous shirt and a
swallow-tailed monstrosity that gives one the appearance of a reformed
chimney-sweep. A greater man than either of us, Sylvester, said that
the world was all a stage. Then why the deuce don't we dress for our
parts?"
"'Ere's your cocktail, sir."
"Good--excellent. What's the time?"
"Gone past seven-thirty, sir."
"By Jove! I shall be late. I am always late, my dear chap; it partly
accounts for my extraordinary popularity. A hostess is so relieved to
see me by the time I turn up that for years afterwards she associates
my face with pleasant sensations. Any mail, Sylvester?"
His servant crossed to the table, on which there reposed four letters.
"These came in this afternoon, sir."
"Read them to me while I dress."
"Read them, Mr. Montague?" The valet's face was a study of respectful
expostulation.
"Is the idea so preposterous, my dear fellow? I believe most people
write letters with the idea of having them read."
The decorous Sylvester sighed, and broke the seal of the first letter.
"I would beg to remind you," he read, "that your account----"
Montague made a deprecatory gesture. "How polite these trades-people
are!" he said. "I shall expect one some day to enclose forget-me-nots.
The next letter?"
Sylvester solemnly opened a diminutive envelope. "Mrs. W. De-Ponsy
Harris requests the pleasure----"
"Another request! What is it--a tea or a dance?"
"A dinner, sir."
"Good! I shall go. Mrs. Harris is the worst hostess in the city, but
she keeps the best cook. Proceed."
The worthy Sylvester took from the table a delicately scented letter
that breathed its delightful suggestion of romance to his grateful
nostrils, whereupon he promptly blushed a deep, unlovely, tomato-like
red. "It starts," said he, "'My Dearest Love----'"
His master glanced at him. "Don't blush," he said. "The _grande
passion_ is nothing to be ashamed of." He carefully adjusted his tie.
"What is the young lady's name?"
"Myrtle, sir."
"Ah, yes; poor little Myrtle! What a pity a woman clings to a romance
that is dead. There is something morbid in women that makes them do it.
It is like embracing a corpse."
"Shall I read it, sir?"
"No, no; don't bother. I know what is in it. On the third page she
declares she hates me, and on the fifth she denies it. Myrtle runs so
deucedly to form."
A look of relief crossed the rotund countenance of Mr. Sylvester as he
took up the last letter. "It's from a society for educating the poor,
sir."
"Tear it up. What we need is a society for educating the rich."
Completely dressed, Montague turned round and struck an attitude. "It
is my intention some day," he said with mock airiness, "to found a
_Conservatoire Universelle_, where philanthropists will be taught
charity, ministers of the gospel gain humility, musicians learn to
feel, and newspaper writers take up the elements of language. Heavens!
such scope as I should have! Stick your head out of the window and see
if a taxi is waiting."
Sylvester raised the window and surveyed the street below. "It's there,
sir," he said, drawing his head in.
"Then I shall leave you. Mrs. Le Roy is giving a dinner-party this
evening, and she invariably has guests who listen charmingly.
Good-night, Sylvester."
"Good-night, sir."
When he was gone, William Sylvester scratched his thinly covered head.
He then shrugged his shoulders, and followed this action by pouring out
a glass of sherry. He took a sip. "'Eavens!" he said aloud; "'ow 'e do
talk!"