"
"Good! Delightful! So am I. Quite alive now, thank you."
She looked it, in spite of the black outdoor costume. But there was a
dash of white at her throat and some white lilies of the valley in
her bosom, and a white feather in her great black hat poised with a
Gainsborough swagger on the mass of her bronze hair.
"It's the spring," she added.
"Yes," said I, "it's the spring."
She approached me and brushed a few specks of dust from my shoulder.
"You want a new suit of clothes, Simon."
"Dear me!" said I, glancing hastily over the blue serge suit in which I
had lounged at Mustapha Superieur. "I suppose I do."
It occurred to me that my wardrobe generally needed replenishing. I had
been unaccustomed to think of these things, the excellent Rogers and his
predecessors having done most of the thinking for me.
"I'll go to Poole's at once," said I.
And then it struck me, to my whimsical dismay, that in the present
precarious state of my finances, especially in view of my decision to
abandon political journalism in favour of I knew not what occupation, I
could not afford to order clothes largely from a fashionable tailor.
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