MADAM FOUCHERE
he waited for several minutes, but Fouchère did not come. Dessalines stepped into the smoking room to permit himself the gratification of another view of his costume which he was wearing that day for the first time and the taste of which had thrown Jules into ecstasies. As usual, such people as were near by had not eyes enough to sufficiently regard him, but to this scrutiny Dessalines was accustomed; would, in fact, have missed it had it been lacking.
The tailor who had cut the clothes had realized his opportunity; the coat, of fine, light-gray Oxford, hung without fold or wrinkle, brought out the sweeping curves of chest and back, minimized the abnormal size of the shoulders, called attention to the swelling contour of the torso, and accentuated the smallness of waist. The trousers cunningly disguised the slight outward arch of the legs and relative smallness of the calves; the light gaiters gave form and finish to the large expanse of shoe leather; a neat golf cap of the same material as the suit rested becomingly upon his massive head. His neck-tie was of a dark shade of green, in perfect harmony with the tint of his silk negligee shirt. Altogether he was the acme of taste, striking, remarkable, anomalous, yet in accord.
He surveyed his reflection for a minute of most profound satisfaction, a satisfaction which contained an almost exuberant delight at the perfection of his costume. People watching him did not smile; they wondered. Several French women whom he passed on the deck were unable to take their eyes from him as he passed them on his way to the chair prepared for Madam Fouchère. As he drew near he saw that the chair was
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