Mr. Jobson scratched his ear, but wisely refrained from speech.  Once clear of his own district mental agitation subsided, but bodily discomfort increased at every step.  The hat and the collar bothered him most, but every article of attire contributed its share.  His uneasiness was so manifest that Mrs. Jobson, after a little womanly sympathy, suggested that, besides Sundays, it might be as well to wear them occasionally of an evening in order to get used to them.

“What, ’ave I got to wear them every Sunday?” demanded the unfortunate, blankly; “why, I thought they was only for Bank Holidays.”

Mrs. Jobson told him not to be silly.

“Straight, I did,” said her husband, earnestly.  “You’ve no idea ’ow I’m suffering; I’ve got a headache, I’m arf choked, and there’s a feeling about my waist as though I’m being cuddled by somebody I don’t like.”

Mrs. Jobson said it would soon wear off and, seated in the train that bore them to the Crystal Palace, put the hat on the rack.  Her husband’s attempt to leave it in the train was easily frustrated and his explanation that he had forgotten all about it received in silence.  It was evident that he would require watching, and under the clear gaze of his children he seldom had a button undone for more than three minutes at a time.

The day was hot and he perspired profusely.  His collar lost its starch—­ a thing to be grateful for—­and for the greater part of the day he wore his tie under the left ear.  By the time they had arrived home again he was in a state of open mutiny.

“Never again,” he said, loudly, as he tore the collar off and hung his coat on a chair.

There was a chorus of lamentation; but he remained firm.  Dorothy began to sniff ominously, and Gladys spoke longingly of the fathers possessed by other girls.  It was not until Mrs. Jobson sat eyeing her supper, instead of eating it, that he began to temporize.  He gave way bit by bit, garment by garment.  When he gave way at last on the great hat question, his wife took up her knife and fork.

His workaday clothes appeared in his bedroom next morning, but the others still remained in the clutches of Aunt Emma.  The suit provided was of considerable antiquity, and at closing time, Mr. Jobson, after some hesitation, donned his new clothes and with a sheepish glance at his wife went out; Mrs. Jobson nodded delight at her daughters.

“He’s coming round,” she whispered.  “He liked that ticket-collector calling him ‘sir’ yesterday.  I noticed it.  He’s put on everything but the topper.  Don’t say nothing about it; take it as a matter of course.”

It became evident as the days wore on that she was right...  Bit by bit she obtained the other clothes—­with some difficulty—­from Aunt Emma, but her husband still wore his best on Sundays and sometimes of an evening; and twice, on going into the bedroom suddenly, she had caught him surveying himself at different angles in the glass.