Emerson arose, and slowly revolved.
"You've been 'outfitted,'" declared the clubman. "Some Broadway
window-dresser has misused you. That's an expensive suit, though,
Emerson."
"A hundred dollars," said Emerson.
"Twenty too much," said Vuyning. "Six months old in cut, one inch too
long, and half an inch too much lapel. Your hat is plainly dated one
year ago, although there's only a sixteenth of an inch lacking in
the brim to tell the story. That English poke in your collar is too
short by the distance between Troy and London. A plain gold link
cuff-button would take all the shine out of those pearl ones with
diamond settings. Those tan shoes would be exactly the articles to
work into the heart of a Brooklyn school-ma'am on a two weeks' visit
to Lake Ronkonkoma. I think I caught a glimpse of a blue silk sock
embroidered with russet lilies of the valley when you--improperly--
drew up your trousers as you sat down. There are always plain ones to
be had in the stores. Have I hurt your feelings, Emerson?"
"Double the ante!" cried the criticised one, greedily. "Give me more
of it. There's a way to tote the haberdashery, and I want to get wise
to it. Say, you're the right kind of a swell. Anything else to the
queer about me?"
"Your tie," said Vuyning, "is tied with absolute precision and
correctness."
"Thanks," gratefully--"I spent over half an hour at it before I--"
"Thereby," interrupted Vuyning, "completing your resemblance to a
dummy in a Broadway store window.
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