So here it was, then, the answer to this perplexing riddle--my
clothes! Mechanically I took off my hat and examined it as I had not
troubled to do hitherto and saw it for a shapeless monstrosity faded
to the colour of dust and with more than one hole in crown and brim.
Truly I (like the woman) had seen better on many a scarecrow. I now
stooped to survey as much of my person as possible--my thick and
clumsy shoes, my rough stockings, the old, cord breeches that
disfigured me, hideous in themselves and rendered more so by numerous
darns and ill-contrived patches. Here then, as it seemed, was the
explanation for the brutality, surliness and odious familiarity I had
been subjected to; for my voice and manner being out of all keeping
with my appearance, I must naturally become an object of suspicion,
coarse merriment, or aversion.
Here I must needs begin to realise and justly appreciate how very much
I had owed in the past to the excellence of my tailor, for, clothed in
the dignity of broadcloth and fine linen I had unconsciously lived up
to them and walked serene, accustomed to such deference as they
inspired and accepting it as my due; but stripped of these sartorial
aids and embellishings, who was to recognise the aristocrat? Nay, his
very airs of birth and breeding, his customary dignity of manner would
be of themselves but matter for laughter. To strive for dignity in
such a hat was to be ridiculous and peering down at the cord breeches,
stockings and shoes, I knew that these henceforth must govern my
behaviour.
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