“Sure. But legs in socks are neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring, to my thinking.”
In spite of the smile on his lips, he looked obstinate and she 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.”
“Will it? I shouldn't have thought of it. So many children wear them.”
“And shortly come to spectacles. Try it yourself for half an hour.”