deliberated, drawing a white sock unmistakably fine and
expensive over her gray-gloved hand. Plainly she wanted to
see Bob in socks and strap slippers, of the sort her boy would
have worn. As she studied the sock Burns studied her profile.
"Get him a pair, for your own satisfaction," he conceded.

He did not hear the order she gave, but the saleswoman was
pleasantly smiling as she checked it.

The next thing that happened, Bob was being measured. Then he
was trying on Russian blouse suits that fitted, practical
little garments of blue galatea, of tan-coloured linen crash,
even of brown holland. Burns looked on approvingly. The
clothes turned Bob into a gentleman's son, no doubt of that,
but it was the sort of gentleman's son who can have the very
best of romping, good times.

Something diverted Bums's attention for a little, and when he
turned back to Bob a bright scarlet reefer had been pulled on
over his blouse, and a wide sailor hat with a scarlet ribbon
crowned his black curls. The result was engagingly
picturesque. But the critic frowned.

"I'm afraid that won't do, Mrs. Lessing," he objected
decidedly.

"You don't like the colour? Not with his hair and eyes?"

"It won't hurt his hair, but it will his eyes. The sun on
that red will torture him."