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: aye, 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 a 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 favour 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
