"It's the work of a child to take a purse out of a pocket. If you can't get your hand in, insert a straw covered with bird-lime. That device is excellent in crowd-work."
Marceline sat up in bed and stared at him. Theophrastus had never worn a more natural air. He was pulling on his pants.
"There's a button off the waist-band," he grumbled.
"You terrify me, Theophrastus!" said Marceline in a shaky voice.
"And a good job too!" said her husband, going down on his hands and knees to recover his braces which had fallen under the bed. "One only does good work with a good woman. And I can't do anything with you. You will never be a good bustler."
"A good—what?"
"A good bustler. Next time you go to the Maison-Dorée, buy me a pair of braces. These are rotten. You don't even know what a bustler is. You ought to be ashamed of yourself at your age. A bustler is a person of your sex who is clever at hiding anything one gets hold of in her frock. I never had a better bustler than Jenny Venus."
"My poor child!" groaned Marceline.
An access of furious anger seized Theophrastus. He dashed at the bed brandishing the button-hook, and cried:
"You know—you know perfectly well that I've forbidden anyone to call me 'Child' ever since the death of Jenny Venus!"