David never appeared so ill, for he had no clew to the little comedy
being played before him; and long seclusion and natural reserve
unfitted him to shine beside a man of the world like Mr. Fletcher.
His simple English sounded harsh, after the foreign phrases that
slipped so easily over the other's tongue. He had visited no
galleries, seen few of the world's wonders, and could only listen
when they were discussed. More than once he was right, but failed to
prove it, for Mr. Fletcher skilfully changed the subject or quenched
him with a politely incredulous shrug.
Even in the matter of costume, poor David was worsted; for, in a
woman's eyes, dress has wonderful significance. Christie used to
think his suit of sober gray the most becoming man could wear; but
now it looked shapeless and shabby, beside garments which bore the
stamp of Paris in the gloss and grace of broadcloth and fine linen.
David wore no gloves: Mr. Fletcher's were immaculate. David's tie
was so plain no one observed it: Mr. Fletcher's, elegant and
faultless enough for a modern Beau Brummel. David's handkerchief was
of the commonest sort (she knew that, for she hemmed it herself):
Mr. Fletcher's was the finest cambric, and a delicate breath of
perfume refreshed the aristocratic nose to which the article
belonged.
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