He was shy of the knickers and golf-stockings, but it
was the orange tie that gave him real alarm. He dared it,
though, and went downstairs to make sure they were setting the
table with glory befitting the party.
As he went through the common room he watched the three or four
groups scattered through it. They seemed to take his clothes as
a matter of course. He was glad. He wanted so much to be a
credit to Istra.
Returning from the dining-room to the common room, he passed a
group standing in a window recess and looking away from him.
He overheard:
"Who is the remarkable new person with the orange tie and the
rococo buckle on his jacket belt--the one that just went
through? Did you ever _see_ anything so funny! His collar
didn't come within an inch and a half of fitting his neck. He
must be a poet. I wonder if his verses are as jerry-built as his
garments!"
Mr. Wrenn stopped.
Another voice:
"And the beautiful lack of development of his legs! It's like
the good old cycling days, when every draper's assistant went
bank-holidaying.
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