How much of a difference would those years make? Had the designer moved on aesthetically from his signature history-heavy bias-cut fantasias the way he supposedly had moved on personally? Would the consummate fashion showman pay any attention at all to the identity of a brand built on discretion and irony, or would he ignore it utterly? Would the show be — not good; Mr. Galliano is always good — but, more important, relevant?

Beyond the excitement of today, would, or should, anyone care?

Maybe.

This wasn’t a slam-dunk debut of a new vision — not one of those moments that changes the direction of clothes, redefining a silhouette or a mood and making women sit up in recognition and think, “That’s how I want to look now.” It was not a moment that wiped the slate clean with its own power.

It was, rather, more of a slow stretch, a warm-up. You can understand it. Mr. Galliano has been on the bench awhile.

Playing on two shared Margiela/Galliano-isms, the de- and reconstructed greatcoat and the man’s suit, so chosen for their literal and metaphorical resonance (“Piece by piece,” went the show notes, Mr. Galliano is, “deconstructing and constructing a new story for Margiela”), Mr. Galliano sent out a collection in two parts, all to the tune of “Hey, Big Spender.”

First came a series of outerwear-turned-innerwear jackets in black or red, the sleeves turned inside out and hanging down like ribbons or peplumed on the hips, sometimes with one side cut away to reveal fringed and beaded showgirl hot pants and vests or bodysuits; sometimes encrusted with a stream of lacquered three-dimensional found objects: shells and birds and dolls. Similar appendages sprouted like a slightly surreal Easter Island face from an otherwise prim red wool coat and formed the breastplate of the crimson ball gown at the finale, rendered in lace and gold and diamonds like a portable cabinet of curiosities.