For ninety-seven years, this was the entire dress code of one of London's grandest clubs.

In 1882, William Gladstone founded the National Liberal Club. Inside its grand rooms, there was, for decades, almost no dress code whatsoever.

Members turned up in their working clothes. MPs and journalists from the press gallery would drift in straight from the House of Commons, still in whatever they'd been wearing all day.

In 1888, the club passed a bylaw stating that no member could appear in the public rooms "in a dressing gown, slippers, or other deshabille." Members, apparently, had been coming downstairs from their overnight rooms in their pyjamas, and enough of them had been doing it that the committee felt compelled to write it down.

That was it. One sentence, drafted specifically because grown men in Victorian London needed to be told, in writing, to put clothes on before entering the drawing room. For the next ninety-seven years, nobody added a single further rule.

Then, in the 1970s, the club nearly collapsed. Its chief executive had defrauded and asset-stripped the organisation, and the fallout brought police investigations and a genuine crisis of reputation. In 1979, the committee finally introduced a formal dress code, jacket, tie, the full expected uniform of a serious London institution. It wasn't a return to old-world tradition. It was closer to the opposite: a club trying to look respectable again, fast, after being caught looking anything but.

There's something almost touching about that. The rule didn't exist because anyone believed a necktie made a man more trustworthy. It existed because, after everything that had gone wrong, a tie was the one thing the committee could actually control by Monday morning.

Which is really the story underneath every club dress code, once you look closely. The rules rarely arrive first, out of some inherited elegance. They arrive second, in response to something specific that already went wrong, pyjamas in the drawing room, a scandal that needed covering, a room that had briefly stopped looking like itself. What lasts, afterward, isn't the memory of the incident. It's just the rule, quietly outliving the reason anyone wrote it.

It was this history, and the particular quiet grandeur of Gladstone's old building on the Embankment, that led Atelier Cavalier to shoot its second campaign there. A room built on a single, almost apologetic rule felt like the right backdrop for a brand that has never needed to write its own down.

The National Liberal Club spent ninety-seven years trusting its members to dress themselves.

It only ever had to write one rule, and it was about pyjamas.