"Oh, I don't know." Marge said, abstractedly. She was admiring the floral pattern on her new china. "But do be nice to him. Don't say anything to embarrass Glory."
"Oh, I'll be nice all right. I guess I know how to act. You and your daughter have trained me. And there are worse things than being embarrassed." He would have gone on, but at that moment Glory sauntered into the room.
"Hi, Dad. Back from the grind, I see." Her hair was the color of lemon and in her blue eyes was reflected a youthful zest for life.
"Do you like the new dress? It comes in seventeen colors. I bought them all. And hats and shoes and gloves and bags to match." She said, walking as she had seen professional models walk, with arms akimbo and swinging hips.
"Very pretty," he said, "but shouldn't there be a little more to it? Style is style, but leave something to the imagination. They can't be using up much fabric with a number like that."
"See, Mom. Didn't I tell you exactly what he'd say? Daddy is so mid-century. Aren't you, Darling?"
"Glory, at the risk of seeming ... ah ... mid-century, I think you owe your mother and myself some information about this person you've asked to dinner."
"What kind of information? You've met him," she said. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Yes, I've met him. What is his background? What does he work at? What kind of a consumer is he?"
"Dad, you are not being fair."