“They’re being took care of,” replied his wife, with spirit.  “Aunt 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.

He dressed at last and stood like a lamb—­a redfaced, bull-necked lamb—­ while Mrs. Jobson fastened his collar for him.

“Bert wanted to get a taller one,” she remarked, “but I said this would do to begin with.”

“Wanted it to come over my mouth, I s’pose,” said the unfortunate Mr. Jobson.  “Well, ’ave it your own way.  Don’t mind about me.  What with the trousers and the collar, I couldn’t pick up a sovereign if I saw one in front of me.”

“If you see one I’ll pick it up for you,” said his wife, taking up the hat and moving towards the door.  “Come along!”

Mr. Jobson, with his arms standing out stiffly from his sides and his head painfully erect, followed her downstairs, and a sudden hush as he entered the kitchen testified to the effect produced by his appearance.  It was followed by a hum of admiration that sent the blood flying to his head.

“Why he couldn’t have done it before I don’t know,” said the dutiful Gladys.  “Why, there ain’t a man in the street looks a quarter as smart.”

“Fits him like a glove!” said Dorothy, walking round him.

“Just the right length,” said Bert, scrutinizing the coat.

“And he stands as straight as a soldier,” said Gladys, clasping her hands gleefully.

“Collar,” said Mr. Jobson, briefly.  “Can I ’ave it took off while I eat my bloater, mother?”

“Don’t be silly, Alf,” said his wife.  “Gladys, pour your father out a nice, strong, Pot cup o’ tea, and don’t forget that the train starts at ha’ past ten.”