“You won’t wear that old waistcoat, will you, Dick?”
“Bless you, no! Why I—”
“I didn’t mean to be personal, dear Dick,” she said, fearing she had hurt his feelings. “’Tis a very nice waistcoat, but what I meant was, that though it is an excellent waistcoat for a settled-down man, it is not quite one for” (she waited, and a blush expanded over her face, and then she went on again)—“for going courting in.”
“No, I’ll wear my best winter one, with the leather lining, that mother made. It is a beautiful, handsome waistcoat inside, yes, as ever anybody saw. In fact, only the other day, I unbuttoned it to show a chap that very lining, and he said it was the strongest, handsomest lining you could wish to see on the king’s waistcoat himself.”
“I don’t quite know what to wear,” she said, as if her habitual indifference alone to dress had kept back so important a subject till now.
“Why, that blue frock you wore last week.”
“Doesn’t set well round the neck. I couldn’t wear that.”
“But I shan’t care.”
“No, you won’t mind.”
“Well, then it’s all right. Because you only care how you look to me, do you, dear? I only dress for you, that’s certain.”