Underwear first. Mrs. Lessing went straight at the foundations of Bob's make up, and began to look over boxes of little gossamer shirts and tiny union suits of a fabric so delicately fine that Burns handled a fold of it suspiciously.
“Silk?” he questioned.
She shook her head, the corners of her mouth curving. “Only a thread now and then. Mostly lisle—for very hot weather. These others have some wool in them, for cooler days. Those nearest you are quite warm, though very light in weight. For really cold weather—”
“You're not planning to watch the thermometer and keep him changing underwear accordingly?”
“Not at all, Doctor Burns. But four weights for the year aren't too many, are they?”
“Are you buying for a year ahead?”
“Please let me. I shall not be here when he needs to change.”
Their eyes met. Something in hers made him desist from argument.
Stockings came next. Mrs. Lessing bought substantial tan ones in quantity, long and well reenforced. Then she took up socks of russet and of white. “Shall you object to his wearing these a good, deal?” she asked Burns. He took up one small sample, running his fingers into it. “I should think he might put his toes through one of those in an hour or two,” he suggested. “His legs are pretty thin. Do you think pipe-stem legs in short socks, to say nothing of bruises and scratches, really attractive?”
“You want him to go barefooted a good deal of the time, don't you?”