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There's the stage horn. Let us hurry out and get an inside seat. The sky looks overcast, and I shouldn't like to have this coat rained upon. There's a fine piece of cloth, Dic. Feel it." Dic complied. "Soft as silk, isn't it?" continued Billy. "They don't make such cloth in these days of flimsy woolsey. Got it thirty years ago from the famous Schwitzer on Cork Street. Tailor shop there for ages.
It was as though I had found my way behind a towering wall that now closed me in with a smile of contemptuous derision. There was no sound in the shining air and the only figure was a guard who moved monotonously up and down outside the Winter Palace. I rang the bell and the "Schwitzer," bowing very ceremoniously, told me the flat was on the second floor.
Small shop dingy little hole, but that man Schwitzer was an artist. Made garments for all the beaux. Brummel used to draw his own patterns in that shop in that very shop, Dic. Think of wearing a coat made by Brummel's tailor. Remarkable man that, Brummel George Bryan Brummel. Good head, full of good brains. Son of a confectioner; friend of a prince.
After much persuasion, Billy consented to accompany Dic on his visit that evening to Miss Tousy. The Schwitzer coat was carefully brushed, the pale face was closely shaved and delicately powdered, and the few remaining hairs were made to do the duty of many in covering Billy's blushing baldness. "I wish I had one of my waistcoats here," said our little coxcomb.
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