“It was a little surprise for you, dear,” said his wife. “Me and Bert and Gladys and Dorothy 'ave all been saving up for it for ever so long.”
“It's very kind of you all,” said Mr. Jobson, feebly—“very, but—”
“They've all been doing without things themselves to do it,” interjected his wife. “As for Gladys, I'm sure nobody knows what she's given up.”
“Well, if nobody knows, it don't matter,” said Mr. Jobson. “As I was saying, it's very kind of you all, but I can't wear 'em. Where's my others?”
Mrs. Jobson hesitated.
“Where's my others?” repeated her husband.
“They're being took care of,” replied his wife, with spirit. “Aunt Emma's minding 'em for you—and you know what she is. H'sh! Alf! Alf! I'm surprised at you!”
Mr. Jobson coughed. “It's the collar, mother,” he said at last. “I ain't wore a collar for over twenty years; not since we was walking out together. And then I didn't like it.”
“More shame for you,” said his wife. “I'm sure there's no other respectable tradesman goes about with a handkerchief knotted round his neck.”
“P'r'aps their skins ain't as tender as what mine is,” urged Mr. Jobson; “and besides, fancy me in a top-'at! Why, I shall be the laughing-stock of the place.”