Chattan rises to shake his hand. He’s strawberry blond, blue-eyed, and probably would be rosy-cheeked if he didn’t have such a deep desert tan at the moment. He is wearing a dress uniform; British officers have their uniforms tailor-made, it is the only way to obtain them. Waterhouse is hardly a clothes horse, but he can see at a glance that Chattan’s uniform was not thrown together by Mummy in a few evenings in front of a flickering coal grate. No, Chattan has himself an honest-to-god tailor somewhere. Yet, when he speaks Waterhouse’s name, he does not say "woe to hice" like the Broadway Buildings crowd. The R comes through hard and crackling and the "house" part is elongated into some thing like "hoos." He has some kind of a wild-ass accent on him, this Chattan.