sition needs a dozen. A wig, sir, is as capricious as a
woman--it can make a gentleman a dowdy, a fool look wise and a wise man
an ass, 'tis therefore a--what the----"

The Viscount rose and putting up his glass peered at his uncle in
pained astonishment:

"Sir--sir," he faltered, "'tis a perfectly curst object that--may I
venture to enquire----"

"What, my coat, Tom?"

"Coat--coat--O let me perish!" And the Viscount sank limply into a
chair and drooped there in dejection. "Calls it a coat!" he murmured.

"'Tis past its first bloom, I'll allow----"

"Bloom--O stap me!" whispered the Viscount.

"But 'twas a very good coat once----"

"Nay sir, nay, I protest," cried the Viscount, "upon a far, far distant
day it may have been a something to keep a man warm, but 'twas never, O
never a coat----"

"Indeed, Tom?"

"Indeed, sir, in its halcyon days 'twas an ill dream, now--'tis a
pasitive nightmare. Have you any other garment a trifle less gruesome,
sir?"

"I have two other suits I think, Sergeant?"

"Three, your honour, there's your d'Oyley stuff suit" (the Viscount
groaned), "there's your blue and silver and the black velvet garnished
with----"

"Sounds curst funereal, Zeb! O my poor nunky! Go fetch 'em, Sergeant,
and let me see 'em--'twill distress and pain me I know but--go fetch
'em!"

Here, at a nod from the Major, Sergeant Zebedee departed.

"I--er--live very retired, Tom," began the Major.

"We'll change all that, sir----"

"The devil, you say!"

"O nunky, nunky, 'tis time I took you in hand. D'ye ever hunt now?"

"Why no!"

"Visit your neighbours?"

"Not as yet, Tom."

"Go among your tenantry?"

"Very seldom----"

"O fie, sir, fie! Here's you pasitively wasting all your natural
advantages,--shape, stature, habit o' bady all thrown away--I always
admired your curst, high, stand-and-deliver air--even as a child, and
here's you living and clothing yourself like----"

He paused as the Sergeant re-entered, who, spreading out the three
suits upon the table with a flourish, stood at attention.

"I knew it--I feared so!" murmured the Viscount, turning over the
garments. He sighed over them, he groaned, he nearly wept. "Take 'em
away--away, Zeb," he faltered at last, "hide 'em from the eye o' day,
lose 'em, a Gad's name, Zeb--burn 'em!"

"Burn 'em, sir?" repeated the Sergeant, folding up the despised
garments with painful care, "axing your pardon, m'lord, same being his
honour's