The Man in the Brown Suit

Thirteen
It has been a curious evening.
The only costume that fitted me in the barber’s emporium was that of a Teddy Bear. I
don’t mind playing bears with some nice young girls on a winter’s evening in England—
but it’s hardly an ideal costume for the equator. However, I created a good deal of
merriment, and won first prize for “brought onboard”—an absurd term for a costume
hired for the evening. Still, as nobody seemed to have the least idea whether they were
made or brought, it didn’t matter.
Mrs. Blair refused to dress up. Apparently she is at one with Pagett on the matter.
Colonel Race followed her example. Anne Beddingfeld had concocted a gipsy costume for
herself, and looked extraordinarily well. Pagett said he had a headache and didn’t
appear. To replace him I asked a quaint little fellow called Reeves. He’s a prominent
member of the South African labour party. Horrible little man, but I want to keep in with
him, as he gives me information that I need. I want to understand this Rand business from
both sides.
Dancing was a hot affair. I danced twice with Anne Beddingfeld and she had to
pretend she liked it. I danced once with Mrs. Blair, who didn’t trouble to pretend, and I
victimized various other damsels whose appearance struck me favourably.
Then we went down to supper. I had ordered champagne; the steward suggested
Clicquot 1911 as being the best they had on the boat and I fell in with his suggestion. I
seemed to have hit on the one thing that would loosen Colonel Race’s tongue. Far from
being taciturn, the man became actually talkative. For a while this amused me, then it
occurred to me that Colonel Race, and not myself, was becoming the life and soul of the