“Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said. " A deep indignant groan followed. ‘I fear you mistake, Emile. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. ” The idea struck him as novel. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. ’ ‘Yes, it’s all my fault,’ he agreed soothingly, ‘and you may rail at me presently as much as you please.
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