Her husband continued.
"Your skirt is fashionable, I suppose, because it is very short and very
tight, but it makes you walk like a duck, and it leaves unconcealed so
much of your stockings that I think at least you should be sure that
they are free from holes."
"You called my skirt smart only yesterday," Ellen gasped, "and I wasn't
going out of doors in these stockings."
"It is just as bad to wear them indoors or outdoors, whether any one
sees them or whether any one does not," Burton insisted. "Your own
sense of self-respect should tell you that. Did you happen, by the bye,
to glance at the boy's collar when you put it on?"
"What, little Alf now?" his mother faltered. "You're getting on to him
now, are you?"
"I certainly should wish," Burton protested mildly, "that he was more
suitably dressed. A plain sailor-suit, or a tweed knickerbocker suit
with a flannel collar, would be better than those velveteen things with
that lace abomination. And why is he tugging at your skirt so?"
"He is ready to start," Ellen replied sharply. "Haven't forgotten
you're taking us to the band, have you?"
"I had forgotten it," Burton admitted, "but I am quite willing to go."
Ellen turned towards the stairs.
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