"Well, I orter say it isn't the one you told me to get," interposed
Elizabeth.

I paused in unwrapping the parcel, assailed by sudden misgivings. "Isn't
this the jumper, then?"

"Not that pertickler one. You see, it was like this: there was a great
'orse of a woman just in front o' me an' I couldn't move ahead of 'er
no'ow, try as I would. It was a case o' bulk, if you know what I mean, an'
elbows wasn't no good. An' 'ang me if she wasn't goin' in for that there
very tricky jumper you wanted! I put up a good fight for it, 'm, I did
indeed. We both reached it at the same time, got 'old of it together,
an'--an'--when it gave way at the seams I let 'er 'ave it," said Elizabeth,
concluding her simple narrative. It sounded convincing enough. I had no
reason to doubt it at the moment.

"The beast!" I said in the bitterness of my heart. "Is it possible a woman
could so far forget herself as to behave like that, Elizabeth?"

"But there's no need for you to be disappointed, as I got a jumper for you
arter all," she continued. She took the final wrappings off the parcel and
drew out a garment. "There!" she remarked proudly, holding it aloft.

The Old Masters, we are told, discovered the secret of colour, but the
colour of that jumper should have been kept a secret--it never ought to
have been allowed to leak out. It was one of those flaming pinks that
cannot be regarded by the naked eye for any length of time, owing to the
strain it puts on the delicate optic nerve. Bands of purple finished off
this Bolshevist creation.