I was saying, when these unpleasant sort of things happened and
I felt crushed, I put on all my best clothes and went out. It brought
back my vanishing self-esteem. In a glossy new hat and a pair of
trousers with a fold down the front (carefully preserved by keeping them
under the bed--I don't mean on the floor, you know, but between the
bed and the mattress), I felt I was somebody and that there were other
washerwomen: ay, and even other girls to love, and who would perhaps
appreciate a clever, good-looking young fellow. I didn't care; that
was my reckless way. I would make love to other maidens. I felt that in
those clothes I could do it.

They have a wonderful deal to do with courting, clothes have. It is half
the battle. At all events, the young man thinks so, and it generally
takes him a couple of hours to get himself up for the occasion. His
first half-hour is occupied in trying to decide whether to wear his
light suit with a cane and drab billycock, or his black tails with a
chimney-pot hat and his new umbrella. He is sure to be unfortunate in
either decision. If he wears his light suit and takes the stick it comes
on to rain, and he reaches the house in a damp and muddy condition and
spends the evening trying to hide his boots. If, on the other hand, he
decides in favor of the top hat and umbrella--nobody would ever dream
of going out in a top hat without an umbrella; it would be like letting
baby (bless it!) toddle out without its nurse. How I do hate a top
hat! One lasts me a very long while, I can tell you. I only wear it
when--well, never mind when I wear it. It lasts me a very long while.
I've had my present one five years. It was rather old-fashioned last
summer, but the shape has come round again now and I look quite stylish.

But to return to our young man and his courting. If he starts off with
the top hat and umbrella the afternoon turns out fearfully hot, and the
perspiration takes all the soap out of his mustache and converts the
beautifully arranged curl over his forehead into a limp wisp resembling
a lump of seaweed. The Fates are never favorable to the poor wretch. If
he does by any chance reach the door in proper condition, she has gone
out with her cousin and won't be back till late.

How a young lover made ridiculous by the gawkiness of modern costume
must envy the picturesque gallants of seventy years ago! Look at them
(on the Christmas cards), with their curly hair and natty hats, their
wel