from other wimmin, Elizabeth. Very few would admire a man like Mr.
Roarings. But 'e's my style, so to speak, if I was pickin' an'
choosin'. But to show you 'ow strange I am," she goes on, "if 'e made
'isself spruce I should get to dislike 'im all at once."'

I raised my head sharply, suffused by a glow of hope. 'Elizabeth, my
good girl,' I exclaimed, 'is it so easy to accomplish as all that?'

'I'm not so sure about easy,' she commented, looking me over as if I'd
been an unlabelled exhibit in a Zoo. '"Rome wasn't built in a day," as
the sayin' is, but it's a long lane that 'as no turnin'. "If 'e," ses
Miss Marryun, meanin' you, "was got up real smart with a fancy
westcoat, a crease down the front of 'is trousis, shinin' button boots,
and wos to shave orf 'is beard and moustarch--" she said that bit very
earnest, too--"well, I should fair detest the sight of 'im."'

I sank down in a seat with a groan of despair. Elizabeth was right.
Such a metamorphosis would not be easy. It would mean the overturning
of my most cherished convictions, an upheaval of the very routine of my
existence. Would life be worth living if one awoke in a morning to the
knowledge of the rites that every day would bring forth? A matutinal
shave, trousers to be taken from the press, collars and cuffs to be
changed, hair and nails to be trimmed, the two latter, if not every
day, at all events occurring with enough frequency to keep a simple man
in a constant state of unrest.

'Elizabeth,' I said, shuddering, 'I cannot do all this.'

'Oo's arskin' you to?' demanded the girl. 'I was only repeating wot
Miss Marryun ses to me with 'er own lips. "Yes, I should fair get to