It had been months since the Yankees had ravaged this part of the county, stealing every waistcoat, cummerbund, and cufflink between Atlanta and Macon. Still Beau Beauregard felt the sting. Blue was not his color.
He had torn out the linings of his silk smoking jackets just to make a filter for tea. His pocket squares were now reduced to handkerchiefs. It wasn’t fair! He thought of boyish Beau who had never tied a cravat let alone caught a sow. He thought of his silk Morocco green slippers and how the ladies gathered around him at the barbeque (so long ago!) as he lifted his trouser cuffs. It was well known that he had the largest feet in seven counties. It was a scandal with he had his evening britches tailored five inches too short. Was he no better than that gigolo Patrice Zouard who died his hair pink and downed creme de menthe like it was a tonic?
The house faced east, windows full with the morning light. It was too hot to stand here much longer, there were chores to be done. He let the heavy drape fall, concealing the room once again in shadow.
How could he have been so blind! The curtians! He ran from window to window, laughing. He would be green-eyed Beau once more!
Paisley jacket and trousers. Button fly with genuine mother-of-pearl. Whether you lie, steal, or cheat, you’ll never be underdressed again.