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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. Then, with
the garments in his hand, he scrutinized the artist closely.
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