ustomer
go entirely undefended or unexcused on so grave an issue. "We fancy,
Sir, that the General" (or shall we say "His Lordship"?) "understands
just as well as we do, Sir, but...."

"But what?" Robert would exclaim, a little exasperated to hear it
suggested in his presence that I understand anything.

Mr. Blenkinson, senior, will rub his chin, wondering very much whether
he is justified in allowing himself to go so far as to hint at the
truth in this instance. "But--er--well, Sir," will be extracted from
him at last, "we gather--er--we gather, Sir--er'm--her Ladyship
insists."

I see Robert's face clear and I hear him say in quite a different
tone, "Oh, I'll soon manage mother for you." And off he trots home,
and in a week or less I have to adopt his ridiculously ugly, obviously
impracticable and damnably uncomfortable fashions--tight trousers and
high collars, no doubt.

Yes, that's where Robert, and you, with your Robert, are leading me,
confound you both. It will be as bad as that; confound you both.

"Don't speak like that, even in jest," you'll say brazenly.

"But damme, Mary--"

"And I certainly will not have my name coupled with that sort of
language, please."

I shall appeal to Robert to bear evidence that I am the injured party,
and not you. Robert of course will stand by you, and you, worthless
woman that you are, will sink your identity and sacrifice your soul
and stand by TIGHT TROUSERS AND HIGH COLLARS.

And I shall get red in the face (and at the back of the neck).

And in the end I shall have to make good by taking you all out to the
most expensive dinner, theatre and supper possible--very nice for
you two, no doubt, but what about me in those infernal trousers and
collars?

It will right itself in the end, for I cannot believe your reason
will permanently forsake you, even for that precious nut of a Robert.
Eventually we shall prefer, unanimously you and I, to slink about the
back streets, clothed in our own ideas, rather than promenade the
fashionable parts clothed in Robert's.

Do you say to yourself that that supreme test, the sacrifice of
Piccadilly, Bond Street and the Park, is too much? Don't cry, darling;
it will never be as bad as that. And why? Because, according to that
incredibly stupid young man, Robert, Piccadilly, Bond Street and the
Park will then be the back streets, in which no decent people, except
out-of-date, old-fashioned fogeys like ourselves, would ever consent