"Allow me, sir," said Leighton. He fastened the collar deftly. "I see
you don't like that tie with the flannels, sir. My mistake."

He threw open the trunk, and took out a brown cravat of soft silk. "Your
brown scarf, sir. It goes well with the flannels. Will you watch in the
glass, sir?" He placed the cravat, measured it carefully, knotted it,
and drew it up.

Lewis did not watch in the mirror. His eyes were fixed on his father's
mask of a face. He knew that, inside, his father was bubbling with fun;
but no ripple showed in his face, no disrespectful twinkle in his eye.
Leighton was playing the game. Suddenly, for no reason that he could
name, Lewis began to adore his father.

"Will that do, sir?"

"Certainly," stammered Lewis. "Very nicely, thank you"

"Thank _you_, sir," said Leighton. He handed Lewis the flannel trousers
and then the coat.

As Lewis finished putting them on, Leighton whirled on his heel.

"Ready, my boy?" The mask was gone.

Lewis laughed back into his father's twinkling eyes.

"Yes, I'm ready," he said rather breathlessly. He followed his father
out of the room. The new clothes gripped him in awkward places, but as
he glanced down at the well-pressed flannels, he felt glorified.