“What little matters, Jack?” inquired his father.
“These bills, Sir.”
“I cry thee mercy,” said Sir Thomas dryly. “I counted those great matters.”
“Forsooth, no, Sir! There be few gentlemen in the Court that do owe so little as I.”
“The Court must be a rare ill place, belike.”
“My good Sir!” said Jack condescendingly, “suffer me to say that you, dwelling hereaway in the country, really can form no fantasy of the manner of dwellers in the town. Of course, aught should serve here that were decent and comely. But in the Court ’tis right needful that fashion be observed. Go to!—these chairs we sit on, I dare say, have been here these fifty years or more?”
“As long as I mind, Jack,” said his father; “and that is somewhat over fifty years.”
“Truly, Sir. Now, no such a thing could not be done in the Court. A chair that is ten years old is there fit for nought; a glass of five years may not be set on board; and a gown you have worn one year must be cast aside, whether it be done or no. The fashion choppeth and changeth all one with the moon; nor can a gentleman wear aught that is not the newest of his sort. Sir, the Queen’s Highness carrieth ne’er a gown two seasons, nor never rippeth—all hang by the walls.”
It was the custom at that time to pull handsome dresses in pieces, and use the materials for something else; but if a dress were not worth the unpicking, it was hung up and left to its fate. Queen Elizabeth kept all hers “by the walls;” she never gave a dress, and never took one in pieces.
“Gentility, son—at least thy gentility—is costly matter,” remarked Sir Thomas.