He wore a flannel shirt of washed-out shepherd's tartan, and a suit of reddish tweeds, of the colour known to tailors as 'heather mixture'; his neckcloth was black, and tied loosely in a sailor's knot; a rusty ulster partly concealed these advantages; and his feet were shod with rough walking boots.

His hat was an old soft felt, which he removed with a flourish as he entered.
'Here I am, William Dent!' he cried, and drawing from his pocket two little wisps of reddish hair, he held them to his cheeks like sidewhiskers and danced about the studio with the filmy graces of a ballet-girl.
Pitman laughed sadly.

'I should never have known you,' said he.
'Nor were you intended to,' returned Michael, replacing his false whiskers in his pocket.

'Now we must overhaul you and your wardrobe, and disguise you up to the nines.' 'Disguise!' cried the artist.

'Must I indeed disguise myself.