"Why," she said, "it looks like me—a little. But I'm not that pretty."
"You are. And it'd look more like you if I didn't have to do it from memory."
And that was how Heather Higgins reluctantly happened to promise Jerry Masterson she'd return next morning for a sitting. She left, and Jerry was eating dinner when Captain Wully walked in to the whistled measures of Comin' Through the Rye.
"Rye!" said Jerry. "You? Rye?"
"I borrowed her old man's Scotch, if that's what you're gettin' at. And if you think I enjoyed eatin' all that candy just to leave a trail—I hope I don't see another piece of candy for three hundred years."
"Just to satisfy my curiosity," Jerry pleaded, "where does the plaid skirt come in?"
"The MacGreggor tartan? I needed a kilt."
"All of a sudden you need a kilt. Why?"
"It's a long story. But first—" he reached into a cupboard and produced Jerry's safety razor—"do you mind if I borrow this? And where do you keep the scissors?"
It took fifteen minutes to locate the scissors.