Elizabeth set out very early on the day of the sale looking enthusiastic.  I, equally enthusiastic, applied myself to the menial tasks usually performed by Elizabeth.  We had just finished a lunch of tinned soup, tinned fish and tinned fruit (oh, what a blessing is a can-opener in the absence of domestics!) when she reappeared.  My heart leapt at the sight of a parcel in her hand.

“You got it after all!” I exclaimed.  O thrice blessed Elizabeth!  O most excellent domestic!  For the battles she had fought that day on my behalf she should not go unrewarded.

“I’m longing to try it on,” I said as I tore at the outer wrappings.

“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.

“How dare you ask me to wear that?” I broke out when I had partially recovered from the shock.

“Why, wot’s wrong with it?  You said you wanted a pink tricky one.  It’s pink, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is pink,” I admitted faintly.

“An’ it’s far trickier nor wot the other was.”

“You had better keep the jumper for yourself,” I said crossly.  “No doubt it will suit you better than it would me.”

She seemed gratified, but not unusually taken aback at my generosity.  “Well, since you ses it yourself, ’m, p’raps it is more my style.  Your complexion won’t stand as much as mine.”

I was pondering on whether this was intended as a compliment or an insult when she spoke again.