"Men 'as all the luck," she jerked out. "I ain't surprised them Sufferajettes got sick o' things."
A pause.
"Still, I s'pose it ain't King George's fault. I'll 'elp 'im out as well as I can," she announced.
It was a resolute Tilda who awaited her swain at the kitchen door that night.
"Take off yer shoes," she said abruptly.
Jem obeyed.
"'Old up yer 'ead. Don't loll," came the sharp command.
Jem drew himself up to attention, and Tilda manipulated an inch tape.
"Sixty-three inches an' a bit. Twelves into sixty go five. Five feet three an' a scrap. You'll jest do," she said with a complacent nod.
Jem, motionless, but turning a fine blush-rose under the touch of the busy fingers, levelled an enquiring gaze at the preoccupied face.