Gentlemen Formerly Dressed Read Free

Czechoslovakian, affronted. “Who was that?”
    â€œArnold Deutsch… he’s some kind of scholar I believe.”

2
    THE TROUSER CRAZE

    In a recent letter from London a correspondent says:
    At first we were inclined to treat the Dietrich-trouser craze reports emanating from America as the result of somebody’s highly coloured imagination—but since photographic proof of ordinary women wearing them out shopping and so on has begun arriving, that’s rather a different matter. Although no one supposes for a moment that the habit of wearing men’s lounge suits will catch on among Englishwomen, there are designers who are determined to sponsor the mode. At a dress show the other day a mannequin caused quite a flutter among the feminine audience by strolling forth attired in a perfectly tailored man’s lounge suit, cut from brown suiting cloth, and carrying a brown beret. Though the severity of the suit was somewhat softened by the rose-beige blouse which accompanied it, the mannequin seemed ill at ease in this essentially unfeminine attire!
    On the other hand, we have the distinctly frilly frivolities of such designers as Norman Hartnell, to whose show at Claridge’s Hotel I went along yesterday. His moods are quite Edwardian—and among reminders of other days, he shows chiffon frocks for Ascot with high boned collars!
    While on the subject of fashion, you may be interested to hear that monkey fur has suddenly become the vogue. A few weeks ago these skins fetched only about 3d. or 4d. a skin in the market—but with the sudden demand prices have now risen to over 5/-. Just another little instance of how fashion rules the intricacies of supply and demand.
    Albany Advertiser, 1933
    T he penthouse suites of Claridge’s on Brook Street in London’s Mayfair had fallen vacant unexpectedly when the fortunes of its long-term residents had finally succumbed to the Depression which gripped London as tightly as it held the rest of the world. Lord and Lady Abernethy had been moved out discreetly and quickly, and all signs of their existence at Claridge’s removed. In certain polite circles their fall from grace caused a minor scandal; but, given the times, it was not unusual enough a story to be worth comment for long… and an unpaid account at Claridge’s was at least a better class of debt. Of course, Rowland Sinclair had no idea who had occupied the top floor of the hotel before his own party. He had been mildly surprised that the penthouses were both available when the rest of the hotel was fully occupied. But then the penthouse apartments carried a rate that would have made most pocketbooks quail. Perhaps even the wealthy clientele of Claridge’s was exercising fiscal restraint.
    Rowland and his companions had taken a motor car from the airport directly to the Bank of England, where Rowland had presented his passport to the manager and arranged appropriate lines of credit. The Sinclair fortune was quite conveniently not confined to the Antipodes, and the manager was accustomed to accommodating the financially embarrassed traveller.
    Thus having ensured that they would not find themselves vagrants, the Australians retreated to the traditional but uncompromising luxury of the Mayfair hotel.
    It was not until later that evening, as they waited for Edna to finish dressing for dinner, that Milton noticed the article in the evening paper.
    â€œRowly,” he said, holding the paper up to the light. “Take a look at this.”
    Rowland peered over Milton’s shoulder and then, startled, took the Manchester Guardian from the poet.
    â€œWhat is it?” Clyde asked as he poured drinks.
    â€œWilfred.”
    â€œWhat? Your brother?” Clyde put down the decanter and strode over to look at the paper. They had left Wilfred Sinclair in Sydney when they’d embarked for Germany in April.
    â€œI think so,” Rowland said, squinting at the newsprint. The