"But you promised to go on your holiday when we have ours in September," I
protested, aghast. (You will shortly understand the reason of my dismay.)
"I don't see how I can possibly manage--"

"I'm sorry, 'm, but I _must_ take 'em then," interposed Elizabeth with a
horrid giving-notice gleam in her eye which I have learnt to dread. "You
see, my young man is 'avin' 'is 'olidays then an'--an'"--she drew up her
lank form and a look that was almost human came into her face--"'e's arsked
me to go with 'im," she finished with ineffable pride.

I am aware that this is not an unusual arrangement amongst engaged couples
in the class to which Elizabeth belongs; nevertheless I felt it was the
moment for judicious advice, knowing how ephemeral are the love-affairs of
Elizabeth. No butterfly that flits from flower to flower could be more
elusive than her young men. Our district must swarm with this fickle type.

"Do you think it right to go off on a holiday with a stranger?" I began
diffidently.

"'Im! 'E isn't a stranger," broke in Elizabeth. "'E's my young man."

"Which young man?"

"My _new_ young man."

"But don't you think it would be better if he were not such a new young
man--I mean, if he were an old young man--er--perhaps I ought to say you
should know him longer before you go away with him. It's not quite the
thing--"