"What's the matter with them, Jessie?" asked Mr. Thomson. "Are they not good enough for you?"
"Uch, Papa, it's not that. But I want this to be a nice party like the Simpsons give. They never have their parties spoiled by dowdy-looking people. It all comes of going to such a poor church. I don't say Mr. Seton's not as good as anybody, but the people in the church are no class; hardly one of them keeps a girl. I don't see why we can't go to a church in Pollokshields where there's an organ and society."
"Never heed her," broke in Mrs. Thomson; "she's a silly girl. Another sausage, Papa?"
"No, Mamma. No, thanks."
"Then we'd better all away and dress," said Mrs. Thomson briskly. "Your things are laid out on your bed, Papa, and I got you a nice made-up tie."
"I'm never to put on my swallow-tail?" asked Mr. Thomson, as he and his wife went upstairs together.
"'Deed, John, Jessie's determined on it."
Mr. Thomson wandered into his bedroom and surveyed the glories of his evening suit lying on the bed, then a thought struck him.
"Here, Mamma," he called. "Taylor hasn't got a swallow-tail and I wouldn't like him to feel out of it. I'll just put on my Sabbath coat—it's wiser-like, anyway."
Mrs. Thomson bustled in from another room and considered the question.