Before she could get a better look, he plucked a shirt from the back of a 
lawn chair and shrugged it on. Then he subjected the corgis to a minute or so 
of close-order drill, using a patch of moss-covered flagstones as parade 
ground, and stringently criticizing their performance in tones loud enough to 
penetrate through the glass doors. The corgis pretended to listen attentively. 
At the end of the performance, Constable Moore burst in through the glass 
doors. "I shall be with you momentarily," he said, and disappeared into a 
back room for a quarter of an hour. When he returned, he was dressed in a tweed 
suit and a rough-hewn sweater over a very fine-looking white shirt. The last 
article looked too thin to prevent the others from being intolerably scratchy, 
but Constable Moore had reached the age when men can subject their bodies to 
the worst irritations—whiskey, cigars,
woolen clothes, bagpipes—without feeling a thing or, at least, without 
letting on.