The world at its haughtiest was driving up to Wilkins's to eat its
dinner in the unrivalled restaurant, and often guests staying at the
hotel came into the outer hall to greet invited friends. And Edward
Henry was so overfaced by visions of woman's brilliance and man's
utter correctness that he scarcely knew where to look--so apologetic
was he for his grey lounge-suit and the creases in his boots. In less
than a quarter of an hour he appreciated with painful clearness that
his entire conception of existence had been wrong, and that he must
begin again at the beginning. Nothing in his luggage at the Majestic
would do. His socks would not do, nor his shoes, nor the braid on his
trousers, nor his cuff-links, nor his ready-made white bow, nor
the number of studs in his shirt-front, nor the collar of his coat.
Nothing! Nothing! To-morrow would be a full day.
He ventured apologetically into the lift. In his private corridor a
young man respectfully waited, hat in hand, the paternal red-and-black
waistcoat by his side for purposes of introduction. The young man
was wearing a rather shabby blue suit, but a rich and distinguished
overcoat that fitted him ill. In another five minutes Edward Henry
had engaged a skilled valet, aged twenty-four, name Joseph, with a
testimonial of efficiency from Sir Nicholas Winkworth, Bart.
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