"I don't feel splendid," sighed Mrs. Jobson to her husband. "These 'ere
boots feel red-'ot."

"Your usual size," said Mr. Jobson, looking across the road.

"And the clothes seem just a teeny-weeny bit tight, p'r'aps," continued
his wife.

Mr. Jobson regarded her critically. "P'r'aps they might have been let
out a quarter of an inch," he: said, thoughtfully. "They're the best fit
you've 'ad for a long time, mother. I only 'ope the gals'll 'ave such
good figgers."

His wife smiled faintly, but, with little breath for conversation, walked
on for some time in silence. A growing redness of face testified to her
distress.

"I--I feel awful," she said at last, pressing her hand to her side.
"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.