Mr. Jobson regarded her critically. “P'r'aps they might have been let out a quarter of an inch,” he: said, thoughtfully. “They're the best fit you've 'ad for a long time, mother. I only 'ope the gals'll 'ave such good figgers.”
His wife smiled faintly, but, with little breath for conversation, walked on for some time in silence. A growing redness of face testified to her distress.
“I—I feel awful,” she said at last, pressing her hand to her side. “Awful.”
“You'll soon get used to it,” said Mr. Jobson, gently. “Look at me! I felt like you do at first, and now I wouldn't go back to old clothes—and comfort—for anything. You'll get to love them boots.
“If I could only take 'em off I should love 'em better,” said his wife, panting; “and I can't breathe properly—I can't breathe.”
“You look ripping, mother,” said her husband, simply.
His wife essayed another smile, but failed. She set her lips together and plodded on, Mr. Jobson chatting cheerily and taking no notice of the fact that she kept lurching against him. Two miles from home she stopped and eyed him fixedly.
“If I don't get these boots off, Alf, I shall be a 'elpless cripple for the rest of my days,” she murmured. “My ankle's gone over three times.”
“But you can't take 'em off here,” said Mr. Jobson, hastily. “Think 'ow it would look.”
“I must 'ave a cab or something,” said his wife, hysterically. “If I don't get 'em off soon I shall scream.”