ssential to an art. Chastened of all flamboyance, they are from most
men occult, obvious, it may be, only to other artists or even only to
him they symbolise. Nor will the dandy express merely a crude idea of
his personality, as does, for example, Mr. Hall Caine, dressing himself
always and exactly after one pattern. Every day as his mood has changed
since his last toilet, he will vary the colour, texture, form of his
costume. Fashion does not rob him of free will. It leaves him liberty of
all expression. Every day there is not one accessory, from the butterfly
that alights above his shirt front to the jewels planted in his linen,
that will not symbolise the mood that is in him or the occasion of the
coming day.

On this, the psychological side of foppery, I know not one so expert as
him whom, not greatly caring for contemporary names, I will call Mr. Le
V. No hero-worshipper am I, but I cannot write without enthusiasm of
his simple life. He has not spurred his mind to the quest of shadows
nor vexed his soul in the worship of any gods. No woman has wounded
his heart, though he has gazed gallantly into the eyes of many women,
intent, I fancy, upon his own miniature there. Nor is the incomparable
set of his trousers spoilt by the perching of any dear little child upon
his knee. And so, now that he is stricken with seventy years, he knows
none of the bitterness of eld, for his toilet-table is an imperishable
altar, his wardrobe a quiet nursery and very constant harem. Mr. Le V.
has many disciples, young men who look to him for guidance in all that
concerns costume, and each morning come, themselves tentatively clad, to
watch the perfect procedure of his toilet and learn invaluable lessons.
I myself, a lie-a-bed, often steal out, foregoing the best hours of the
day abed, that I may attend that levee. The rooms of the Master are in
St. James's Street, and perhaps it were well that I should give some
little record of them and of the manner of their use. In the first room
the Master sleeps. He is called by one of his valets, at seven o'clock,
to the second room, where he bathes, is shampooed, is manicured and, at
length, is enveloped in a dressing-gown of white wool. In the third
room is his breakfast upon a little table and his letters and some
newspapers. Leisurely he sips his chocolate, leisurely learns all that
need be known. With a cigarette he allows his temper, as informed by
the news and the weather and what not, to dev