and that red feather thing.' It was a brilliant crimson-dyed pigeon's wing.
'Now I want some yards of muslin with a nice, fierce pattern, please.' He got it—yellow with black tulips—and returned heavily laden.
'Sorry to have kept you,' said he. 'Now we'll go to my quarters to change and beautify.'
We came to them—opposite a dun waste of parade-ground that might have been Mian Mir—and bugles as they blew and drums as they rolled set heart-strings echoing.
We hoisted the boys out and arranged them on chairs, while Wontner changed into uniform, but stopped when he saw me taking off my jacket.
'What on earth's that for?' said he.
'Because you've been wearing my evening things,' I said. 'I want to get into 'em again, if you don't mind.'
'Then you aren't a reporter?' he said.
'No,' I said, 'but that shan't part us.'
'Oh, hurry!' cried Eames in desperate convulsions. 'We can't stand this much longer. 'Tisn't fair on the young.'
'I'll attend to you in good time,' said Wontner; and when he had made careful toilet, he unwrapped the bonnets, put the peacock's feather into the magenta one, pinned the crimson wing on the blue one, set them daintily on the boys' heads, and bade them admire the effect in his shaving-glass while he ripped the muslin into lengths, bound it first, and draped it artistically afterwards a little below their knees. He finished off with a gigantic
