"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?"
"He is ready to start," Ellen replied sharply. "Haven't forgotten you're taking us to the band, have you?"