"Good Lord, my dear chap, have you only got as far as that?" asked Gerrit, irritably.
Paul looked at him, a little superciliously:
"No doubt you fling yourself into your uniform in three minutes; but I can't do that. Since one has to dress one's self and can't just shake one's feathers like a bird, I at least want to dress myself with care . . . for otherwise I feel disgusting."
"But do remember . . . if Ernst . . ."
"Ernst won't go any madder than he is because I dress myself properly and keep you waiting a quarter of an hour longer. I can't dress any quicker."
"Because you don't choose to!"
"Because I don't choose to?" retorted Paul, pale with indignation. "Because I don't choose to? Because I can't. I can't do it. Do you want me to go as I am? In my drawers? Very well; then send for a cab. I'll go like this, just as I am. But, if you want me to dress myself, you must have a little patience."
"Oh, all right!" Gerrit sighed, wearily. "Oof! Get on with your dressing."
Paul opened a door of his wardrobe. Gerrit saw his shirts lying very neatly arranged, coloured shirts and white shirts. Paul stood hesitating for a moment, looked out of the window at the rain and at last selected from the coloured stack a shirt
