Pitman laughed sadly. 'I should never have known you,' said he.
'Nor were you intended to,' returned Michael, replacing his false
whiskers in his pocket. 'Now we must overhaul you and your wardrobe, and
disguise you up to the nines.'
'Disguise!' cried the artist. 'Must I indeed disguise myself. Has it
come to that?'
'My dear creature,' returned his companion, 'disguise is the spice of
life. What is life, passionately exclaimed a French philosopher, without
the pleasures of disguise? I don't say it's always good taste, and
I know it's unprofessional; but what's the odds, downhearted
drawing-master? It has to be. We have to leave a false impression on
the minds of many persons, and in particular on the mind of Mr Gideon
Forsyth--the young gentleman I know by sight--if he should have the bad
taste to be at home.'
'If he be at home?' faltered the artist. 'That would be the end of all.'
'Won't matter a d--,' returned Michael airily. 'Let me see your clothes,
and I'll make a new man of you in a jiffy.'
In the bedroom, to which he was at once conducted, Michael examined
Pitman's poor and scanty wardrobe with a humorous eye, picked out a
short jacket of black alpaca, and presently added to that a pair of
summer trousers which somehow took his fancy as incongruous.
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