Emma's minding 'em for you--and you know what she is. H'sh! Alf! Alf!
I'm surprised at you!"

Mr. Jobson coughed. "It's the collar, mother," he said at last. "I
ain't wore a collar for over twenty years; not since we was walking out
together. And then I didn't like it."

"More shame for you," said his wife. "I'm sure there's no other
respectable tradesman goes about with a handkerchief knotted round his
neck."

"P'r'aps their skins ain't as tender as what mine is," urged Mr. Jobson;
"and besides, fancy me in a top-'at! Why, I shall be the laughing-stock
of the place."

"Nonsense!" said his wife. "It's only the lower classes what would
laugh, and nobody minds what they think."

Mr. Jobson sighed. "Well, I shall 'ave to go back to bed again, then,"
he said, ruefully. "So long, mother. Hope you have a pleasant time at
the Palace."

He took a reef in the counterpane and with a fair amount of dignity,
considering his appearance, stalked upstairs again and stood gloomily
considering affairs in his bedroom. Ever since Gladys and Dorothy had
been big enough to be objects of interest to the young men of the
neighbourhood the clothes nuisance had been rampant. He peeped through
the window-blind at the bright sunshine outside, and then looked back at
the tumbled bed. A murmur of voices downstairs apprised him that the
conspirators were awaiting the result.