"Oh, A SHOP, you mean," Philip replied, putting on at once his most
respectable British sabbatarian air. "I can tell you of the very
best tailor in London, whose cut is perfect; a fine flower of
tailors: but NOT to-day. You forget you're in England, and this is
Sunday. On the Continent, it's different: but you'll find no decent
shops here open to-day in town or country."

Bertram Ingledew drew one hand over his high white brow with a
strangely puzzled air. "No more I will," he said slowly, like one
who by degrees half recalls with an effort some forgotten fact from
dim depths of his memory. "I ought to have remembered, of course.
Why, I knew that, long ago. I read it in a book on the habits and
manners of the English people. But somehow, one never recollects
these taboo days, wherever one may be, till one's pulled up short
by them in the course of one's travels. Now, what on earth am I to
do? A box, it seems, is the Open, Sesame of the situation. Some
mystic value is attached to it as a moral amulet. I don't believe
that excellent Miss Blake would consent to take me in for a second
night without the guarantee of a portmanteau to respectablise me."

We all have moments of weakness, even the most irreproachable
Philistine among us; and as Bertram said those words in rather a
piteous voice, it occurred to Philip Christy that the loan of a
portmanteau would be a Christian act which might perhaps simplify
matters for the handsome and engaging stranger. Besides, he was
sure, after all--mystery or no mystery--Bertram Ingledew was
Somebody. That nameless charm of dignity and distinction impressed
him more and more the longer he talked with the Alien. "Well, I
think, perhaps, I could help you," he hazarded after a moment, in