can't go to a place like the Cosmopolis looking like this."

Archie, was a little embarrassed.

"Oh, I don't know, you know, don't you know!" he said. "Still, since you
have brought the topic up, you DID get the good old wardrobe a bit mixed
this morning what? I mean to say, you seem absent-mindedly, as it
were, to have got hold of samples from a good number of your various
suitings."

"Suitings? How do you mean, suitings? I haven't any suitings! Who do you
think I am? Vincent Astor? All I have is what I stand up in."

Archie was shocked. This tragedy touched him. He himself had never had
any money in his life, but somehow he had always seemed to manage to
have plenty of clothes. How this was he could not say. He had always had
a vague sort of idea that tailors were kindly birds who never failed to
have a pair of trousers or something up their sleeve to present to the
deserving. There was the drawback, of course, that once they had given
you things they were apt to write you rather a lot of letters about it;
but you soon managed to recognise their handwriting, and then it was a
simple task to extract their communications from your morning mail and
drop them in the waste-paper basket. This was the first case he had
encountered of a man who was really short of clothes.

"My dear old lad," he said, briskly, "this must be remedied! Oh,
positively! This must be remedied at once! I suppose my things wouldn't
fit you? No. Well, I tell you what. We'll wangle something from
my father-in-law. Old Brewster, you know, the fellow who runs the
Cosmopolis. His'll fit you like the paper on the wall, because he's
a tubby little blighter, too. What I mean to say is, he's also one of
those sturdy, square, fine-looking chappies of about the middle height.
By the way, where are you stopping these days?"

"Nowhere just at present. I thought of taking one of those
self-contained Park benches."

"Are you broke?"

"Am I!"

Archie was concerned.

"You ought to get a job."

"I ought. But somehow I don't seem able to."

"What did you do before the war?"

"I've forgotten."

"Forgotten!"

"Forgotten."

"How do you mean--forgotten? You can't mean--FORGOTTEN?"

"Yes. It's quite gone."

"But I mean to say. You can't have forgotten a thing like that."

"Can't I! I've forgotten all sorts of things. Where I was born. How old
I am. Whether I'm married or single. What my name is--"

"Well, I'm dashed!" said Archie, staggered. "But