Megan looked down at them, surprised.

“What’s the matter with them?”

“Everything’s the matter with them. They’re loathsome. And why wear a pullover like a decayed cabbage?”

“It’s all right, isn’t it? I’ve had it for years.”

“So I should imagine. And why do you—”

At this minute the train came in and interrupted my angry lecture.

I got into an empty first-class carriage, let down the window and leaned out to continue the conversation.

Megan stood below me, her face upturned. She asked me why I was so cross.

“I’m not cross.” I said untruly. “It just infuriates me to see you so slack, and not caring how you look.”

“I couldn’t look nice, anyway, so what does it matter?”

“My God,” I said. “I’d like to see you turned out properly. I’d like to take you to London and outfit you from tip to toe.”

“I wish you could,” said Megan.

The train began to move. I looked down into Megan’s upturned, wistful face.

And then, as I have said, madness came upon me.

I opened the door, grabbed Megan with one arm and fairly hauled her into the carriage.

There was an outraged shout from a porter, but all he could do was dexterously to bang shut the door again. I pulled Megan up from the floor where my impetuous action had landed her.

“What on earth did you do that for?” she demanded, rubbing one knee.

“Shut up,” I said. “You’re coming to London with me and when I’ve done with you you won’t know yourself. I’ll show you what you can look like if you try. I’m tired of seeing you mooch about down at heel and all anyhow.”

“Oh!” said Megan in an ecstatic whisper.

The ticket collector came along and I bought Megan a return ticket. She sat in her corner looking at me in a kind of awed respect.

“I say,” she said when the man had gone. “You are sudden, aren’t you?”

“Very,” I said. “It runs in our family.”

How to explain to Megan the impulse that had come over me? She had looked like a wistful dog being left behind. She now had on her face the incredulous pleasure of the dog who has been taken on the walk after all.

“I suppose you don’t know London very well?” I said to Megan.

“Yes, I do,” said Megan. “I always went through it to school. And I’ve been to the dentist there and to a pantomime.”

“This,” I said darkly, “will be a different London.”

We arrived with half an hour to spare before my appointment in Harley Street.

I took a taxi and we drove straight to Mirotin, Joanna’s dressmaker. Mirotin is, in the flesh, an unconventional and breezy woman of forty-five, Mary Grey. She is a clever woman and very good company. I have always liked her.