But he evinced no bad taste in the selection of a costume. He chose no
gaudy colours, or flashily-cut vestments. On the contrary, the garb he
assumed was in perfect keeping with the style of his hair and moustache.
It was the dress of a middle-aged gentleman; fashionable, but
scrupulously simple, quiet alike in colour and in cut.
When his toilet was complete, from his twenty-one shilling hat to the
polished boots upon his well-shaped feet, he left the shady little
parlour in which he had changed his clothes, and came into the shop,
with a glove dangling loosely in one ungloved hand, and a cane in the
other.
The tradesman and his shopboy stared aghast.
"If that turn-out had cost you fifty pound, sir, instead of eighteen
pound, twelve, and elevenpence, it would be worth all the money to you;
for you look like a dook;" cried the tailor, with enthusiasm.
"I'm glad to hear it," Mr. Wilmot said, carelessly. He stood before the
cheval-glass, and twirled his moustache as he spoke, looking at himself
thoughtfully, with a smile upon his face. Then he took his change from
the tailor, counted it, and dropped the gold and silver into his
waistcoat-pocket.
The man's manner was as much altered as his person. He had entered the
shop at eight o'clock that morning a blackguard as well as a vagabond.
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