'They'd be rather fine men, some of them, if they were dressed decently, especially the ones with the beautiful long, curved noses.

I wish they were dressed like the Babylonians of my court.' And of course, it was so.
The moment the almost fainting Psammead had blown itself out every man in Throgmorton Street appeared abruptly in Babylonian full dress.
All were carefully powdered, their hair and beards were scented and curled, their garments richly embroidered.

They wore rings and armlets, flat gold collars and swords, and impossible-looking head-dresses.
A stupefied silence fell on them.
'I say,' a youth who had always been fair-haired broke that silence, 'it's only fancy of course--something wrong with my eyes--but you chaps do look so rum.' 'Rum,' said his friend.

'Look at YOU.

You in a sash! My hat! And your hair's gone black and you've got a beard.