"Awful."

"You'll soon get used to it," said Mr. Jobson, gently. "Look at me! I
felt like you do at first, and now I wouldn't go back to old clothes--and
comfort--for anything. You'll get to love them boots.

"If I could only take 'em off I should love 'em better," said his wife,
panting; "and I can't breathe properly--I can't breathe."

"You look ripping, mother," said her husband, simply.

His wife essayed another smile, but failed. She set her lips together
and plodded on, Mr. Jobson chatting cheerily and taking no notice of the
fact that she kept lurching against him. Two miles from home she stopped
and eyed him fixedly.

"If I don't get these boots off, Alf, I shall be a 'elpless cripple for
the rest of my days," she murmured. "My ankle's gone over three times."

"But you can't take 'em off here," said Mr. Jobson, hastily. "Think 'ow
it would look."

"I must 'ave a cab or something," said his wife, hysterically. "If I
don't get 'em off soon I shall scream."

She leaned against the iron palings of a house for support, while Mr.
Jobson, standing on the kerb, looked up and down the road for a cab. A
four-wheeler appeared just in time to prevent the scandal--of Mrs. Jobson
removing her boots in the street.