“Something like it,” Burton admitted.

“No silk hat, no tail coat?”

Burton shook his head gently.

“I trust,” he said, “that I have finished, for the present, at any rate, with those most unsightly garments.”

“Come inside,” Ellen ordered briskly.

They passed into the little sitting-room.  Burton glanced around him with a half-frightened sense of apprehension.  His memory, at any rate, had not played him false.  Everything was as bad—­even worse than he had imagined.  The suite of furniture which was the joy of his wife’s heart had been, it is true, exceedingly cheap, but the stamped magenta velvet was as crude in its coloring as his own discarded tie.  He looked at the fringed cloth upon the table, the framed oleographs upon the wall, and he was absolutely compelled to close his eyes.  There was not a single thing anywhere which was not discordant.

Mrs. Burton had not yet finished with the subject of clothes.  The distaste upon her face had rather increased.  She looked her husband up and down and her eyes grew bright with anger.

“Well, I did think,” she declared, vigorously, “that I was marrying a man who looked like a gentleman, at least!  Do you mean to say, Alfred, that you mean to go into the city like that?”

“Certainly,” Burton replied.  “And Ellen!”

“Well?”

“Since we are upon the subject of dress, may I have a few words?  You have given expression to your dislikes quite freely.  You will not mind if I do the same?”

“Well, what have you got to say?” she demanded, belligerently.

“I don’t like your bun,” Burton said firmly.

“Don’t like my what?” his wife shrieked, her hands flying to the back of her head.

“I don’t like your bun—­false hair, or whatever you call it,” Burton repeated.  “I don’t like that brooch with the false diamonds, and if you can’t afford a clean white blouse, I’d wear a colored one.”

Mrs. Burton’s mouth was open but for the moment she failed to express herself adequately.  Her husband continued.

“Your skirt is fashionable, I suppose, because it is very short and very tight, but it makes you walk like a duck, and it leaves unconcealed so much of your stockings that I think at least you should be sure that they are free from holes.”

“You called my skirt smart only yesterday,” Ellen gasped, “and I wasn’t going out of doors in these stockings.”

“It is just as bad to wear them indoors or outdoors, whether any one sees them or whether any one does not,” Burton insisted.  “Your own sense of self-respect should tell you that.  Did you happen, by the bye, to glance at the boy’s collar when you put it on?”

“What, little Alf now?” his mother faltered.  “You’re getting on to him now, are you?”

“I certainly should wish,” Burton protested mildly, “that he was more suitably dressed.  A plain sailor-suit, or a tweed knickerbocker suit with a flannel collar, would be better than those velveteen things with that lace abomination.  And why is he tugging at your skirt so?”