Andrew Carrington never went to confession, but he did visit his tailor twice a year. It served much the same purpose, providing an opportunity to confide in a trusted counselor, see how he was measuring up and, sartorially at least, turn over a new leaf.

It was an unvarying ritual that Andrew loved well. The drive into London. Lunch at his club on St. James. Then a brisk walk over to Gieves & Hawkes at No. 1 Savile Row, his home for the next few days. There, in the paneled opulence of the consulting salon, he would chat with his master tailor, choose from a seemingly endless array of fabrics (the company’s stock included thousands of the finest wool flannels and cashmeres) and complete his new wardrobe. The task was painstaking but rewarding. Andrew’s keen eye made it easier, as did the unerring advice of his tailor, who had served him for nearly three decades.

Though Andrew followed his tailor’s counsel almost religiously, his brother Liam struck a more agnostic course. He bounced from tailor to tailor and firm to firm, incorporating a bit from here, a bit from there and some bits from God knows where. It was not the most straightforward of processes. Andrew, for one, found it quite unsettling. But, somehow, it worked.