"I am utterly at a loss," I said, bowing, "unless it is the constable."

"On the contrary," he replied, "it is the man I hate more than anyone
else in the world."

Only his words, however, hinted that the contingency was unpleasant. His
tone was one of pleased anticipation. He hummed a little tune, as Brutus
knelt before him to help him on with a new pair of top boots, spotless
and shining.

A few minutes later he stood before his mirror critically examining a
coat of blue broadcloth. It evidently satisfied him, for he smiled back
indulgently at his image in the glass, and watched complacently while
Brutus smoothed its folds.

"A gentleman should always have twenty coats," he remarked, turning
toward me. "Personally, I never travel with less than twenty-five--a
point in my favor, is it not, my son?"

"And when we remember the lady who accompanies the coats--" I bowed, and
he turned slowly back to the mirror.

"Let us trust," he replied coldly, "you will not be obliged to remind
yourself often that she is a lady, and that she shall be treated as one
both by you and by me as long as she remains beneath this roof."

I felt a pleasing sense of triumph at the success of my remark, and
abruptly determined to drive it home.

"Sir," I said, "You astound me."