“She’s got no shoes. You want to buy her some shoes, one useful pair and one fancy pair with heels.”
“What size do I git? I ain’t never bought shoes for a woman before.”
This was a poser, and both men cogitated till Moreau suggested leaving it to the shoe dealer, who should be told that Lucy was a woman of average size.
“But her feet ain’t,” said Fletcher spitefully, never having been able to forgive Lucy her lack of beauty.
“Never mind; you’ll have to make a bluff at it. Get the best you can. Then I want a shawl for her. It’ll be cold soon, and she’s got nothing to keep her warm.”
“What kind of a shawl? I don’t know no more about shawls than I do about shoes.”
“A pink crochet shawl,” said Moreau slowly, and with evident sheepish reluctance at having to make this exhibition of unexpected knowledge.
“And what’s that? I dunno what crochet is.”
“I don’t, either”—and then, with desperate courage—“well, anyway, that’s what she said she’d like. I asked her yesterday and she said that. You go into the store and ask for it. That’ll be enough.”
Fletcher grunted.