Till these two dozen shirts are worn out, I shall have to remain a hopeless bounder.
Why have we not a Minister of the Fine Arts?
Why does not a paternal Government fix notices at the street corners, telling the would-be gentleman how many studs he ought to wear, what style of necktie now distinguishes the noble-minded man from the base-hearted?
They are prompt enough with their police regulations, their vaccination orders--the higher things of life they neglect.
I select at random another masterpiece of English literature.
"My dear," says Lady Montresor, with her light aristocratic laugh, "you surely cannot seriously think of marrying a man who wears socks with yellow spots ?" Lady Emmelina sighs.
"He is very nice," she murmurs, "but I suppose you are right.

I suppose that sort of man does get on your nerves after a time." "My dear child," says Lady Montresor, "he is impossible." In a cold sweat I rush upstairs into my bedroom.
I thought so: I am always wrong.

All my best socks have yellow spots.

I rather fancied them.

They were expensive, too, now I come to think of it.
What am I to do?
If I sacrifice them and get red spots, then red spots, for all I know, may be wrong.