“Now, my honey love,” continued Petruchio, who was always most affectionate in his speech, and pretended that everything he did was out of devotion to his wife, “we will return to your father’s house, decked out as bravely as the best, in gay apparel;” and, scarcely allowing her a moment in which to snatch a morsel of food, he ordered in the tailor and haberdasher, who had been preparing some fine new clothes. But, as usual, nothing pleased him. “Here is the cap your worship bespoke,” said the haberdasher. “Why, this was moulded on a porringer, a velvet dish!” exclaimed Petruchio, with an air of disgust. “It’s a cockle or a walnut-shell--a toy, a baby’s cap! Away with it! Come, let me have a bigger.” “I’ll have no bigger,” declared Katharine. “This suits the present style, and gentlewomen wear such caps as these.” “When you are gentle, you shall have one too, and not till then,” said Petruchio, in rather a meaning voice. Katharine’s old spirit blazed up again at this rebuke, but the only notice Petruchio took of her angry words was to pretend to think she was agreeing with him in his abuse of the cap. Then he ordered the tailor to produce the gown. “O heavens! what silly style of stuff is here?” he cried in horror. “What’s this? A sleeve? It’s like a demi-cannon! What, up and down, carved like an apple-tart? Here’s snip and nip, and cut, and slish and slash, like a censer in a barber’s shop. Why, what in the name of evil, tailor, do you call this?” “You bade me make it well and properly, according to the fashion and the time,” said the tailor. “Marry, so I did, but, if you remember, I did not bid you mar it to the time. Come, be off; I’ll none of it. Hence, make the best of it you can.” “I never saw a better-fashioned gown,” said Katharine, “more quaint, more pleasing, nor more praiseworthy. I suppose you mean to make a puppet of me.” “Why, true, he means to make a puppet of you,” said Petruchio, wilfully mistaking to whom she spoke. “She says your worship means to make a puppet of her,” explained the tailor. But Petruchio would listen to no reason or argument, and sent the tailor away in the most peremptory manner, though privately the man was told he would be paid for the gown, and that he was not to be offended at Petruchio’s hasty words. “Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father’s house even in this honest, mean raiment,” said Petruchio. “After all, fine clothes are of no importance. Is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful? Oh no, good Kate; neither are you any the worse for this mean array. If you feel ashamed about it, lay the blame on me; and so, be cheerful. Come, we will go at once to feast and amuse ourselves at your father’s house. Let me see: I think it is now about seven o’clock; we shall easily get there by dinner-time.” [Illustration: “What’s this? A sleeve?”]