“Too much,” said Bert, with unwonted consideration.

“I wish he’d leave me alone,” said Gladys.  “My food don’t do me no good when he’s watching every mouthful I eat.”

Of murmurings such as these Mr. Jobson heard nothing, and in view of the great improvement in his dress and manners, a strong resolution was passed to avoid the faintest appearance of discontent.  Even when, satisfied with his own appearance, he set to work to improve that of Mrs. Jobson, that admirable woman made no complaint.  Hitherto the brightness of her attire and the size of her hats had been held to atone for her lack of figure and the roomy comfort of her boots, but Mr. Jobson, infected with new ideas, refused to listen to such sophistry.  He went shopping with Dorothy; and the Sunday after, when Mrs. Jobson went for an airing with him, she walked in boots with heels two inches high and toes that ended in a point.  A waist that had disappeared some years before was recaptured and placed in durance vile; and a hat which called for a new style of hair-dressing completed the effect.

“You look splendid, ma!” said Gladys, as she watched their departure.  “Splendid!”

“I don’t feel splendid,” sighed Mrs. Jobson to her husband.  “These ’ere boots feel red-’ot.”

“Your usual size,” said Mr. Jobson, looking across the road.

“And the clothes seem just a teeny-weeny bit tight, p’r’aps,” continued his wife.

Mr. Jobson regarded her critically.  “P’r’aps they might have been let out a quarter of an inch,” he:  said, thoughtfully.  “They’re the best fit you’ve ’ad for a long time, mother.  I only ’ope the gals’ll ’ave such good figgers.”

His wife smiled faintly, but, with little breath for conversation, walked on for some time in silence.  A growing redness of face testified to her distress.

“I—­I feel awful,” she said at last, pressing her hand to her side.  “Awful.”

“You’ll soon get used to it,” said Mr. Jobson, gently.  “Look at me!  I felt like you do at first, and now I wouldn’t go back to old clothes—­and comfort—­for anything.  You’ll get to love them boots.

“If I could only take ’em off I should love ’em better,” said his wife, panting; “and I can’t breathe properly—­I can’t breathe.”

“You look ripping, mother,” said her husband, simply.

His wife essayed another smile, but failed.  She set her lips together and plodded on, Mr. Jobson chatting cheerily and taking no notice of the fact that she kept lurching against him.  Two miles from home she stopped and eyed him fixedly.

“If I don’t get these boots off, Alf, I shall be a ’elpless cripple for the rest of my days,” she murmured.  “My ankle’s gone over three times.”

“But you can’t take ’em off here,” said Mr. Jobson, hastily.  “Think ’ow it would look.”

“I must ’ave a cab or something,” said his wife, hysterically.  “If I don’t get ’em off soon I shall scream.”