It must be said that Sharon was alone in this conviction. The others most concerned, had he allowed it to be known, would have been amazed by it—Winona Penniman most of all. Winona's conviction was that the rejected Cowan twin conspicuously lacked those qualities that would make him desirable for adoption by any family of note, certainly not by Whipples. He had gone from bad to worse. Driving a truck had been bad. There had been something to say in its favour in the early stages of his career, until the neophyte had actually chosen to wear overalls like any common driver. In overalls he could not be mistaken for a gentleman amateur moved by a keen love for the sport of truck driving—and golf was worse. Glad at first of this change in his life work, Winona had been shocked to learn that golf kept people from the churches. And the clothes, even if they did not include overalls, were not genteel. Wilbur wore belted trousers of no distinction, rubber-soled sneakers of a neutral tint, and a sweater now so low in tone that the precise intention of its original shade was no longer to be divined. A rowdyish cap completed the uniform. No competent bank president, surveying the ensemble, would have for a moment considered making a bookkeeper out of the wearer. He was farther than ever before, Winona thought, from a career of Christian gentility in which garments of a Sabbath grandeur are worn every day and proper care may be taken of the hands.
It was late in this summer that she enforced briefly a demand for genteel raiment, and kept the boy up until ten-thirty of a sleepy evening to manicure his nails. The occasion was nothing less than the sixteenth birthday of Merle Whipple, to be celebrated by an afternoon festivity on the grounds of his home. The brothers had met briefly and casually during Merle's years as a Whipple; but this was to be an affair of ceremony, and Winona was determined that the unworthy twin should—at least briefly—appear as one not socially impossible.
She browbeat him into buying a suit such as those that are worn by jaunty youths in advertisements, including haberdashery of supreme elegance, the first patent-leather shoes worn by this particular Cowan, and a hat of class. He murmured at the outlay upon useless finery. It materially depleted his capital—stored with other treasure in a tin box labelled "Cake" across its front. But Winona was tenacious. He murmured, too, at the ordeal of manicuring, but Winona was insistent, and laboured to leave him with the finger tips of one who did not habitually engage in a low calling.
He fell asleep at the final polishing, even after trying to fix his gaze upon the glittering nails of the hand Winona had relinquished, and while she sought to impress him with the importance of the approaching function. There would be present not only the Whipples, but their guests, two girl friends of Patricia from afar and a school friend of Merle's; there would be games and refreshment and social converse, and Winona hoped he would remember not to say "darn it" any time in such of the social converse as he provided; or forget to say, on leaving, what a charming time it was and how nice every one had been to ask him. He dozed through much of this instruction.
Yet Winona, the next day, felt repaid for her pains. Arrayed in the new suit, with the modish collar and cravat, the luminous shoes and the hat of merit, the boy looked entirely like those careless youths in the pictures who so proudly proclaim the make of their garments. No one regarding him would have dreamed that he was at heart but a golf caddie or a driver of trucks for hire. Winona insisted upon a final polish of his nails, leaving them with a dazzling pinkish glitter, and she sprayed and anointed him with precious unguents, taking especial pains that his unruly brown hair should lie back close to his head, to show the wave.
When he installed her beside him in Sharon Whipple's newest car, pressed upon the youth by its owner for this occasion, she almost wished that she had been a bit more daring in her own dress. It was white and neat, but not fancy dressmaking in any sense of the word. She regretted for a moment her decision against pink rosebuds for the hat, so warmly urged by her mother, who kept saying nowadays that she would be a girl but once. Winona was beginning to doubt this. At least you seemed to be a girl a long time. She had been a little daring, though. Her stockings were white and of a material widely heralded as silkona. Still her skirt was of a decent length, so that she apprehended no scandal from this recklessness.
When her genteel escort started the car and guided it by an apparently careless winding of the wheel she felt a glow that was almost pride in his appearance and nonchalant mastery of this abstruse mechanism. She was frightened at the speed and at the narrow margin by which he missed other vehicles and obtruding corners. When he flourished to an impressive halt under the Whipple porte-cochère she felt a new respect for him. If only he could do such things at odd moments as a gentleman should, and not continuously for money, in clothes unlike those of the expensive advertisements!
She descended from the car in a flutter of pretense that she habitually descended from cars, and a moment later was overjoyed to note that her escort sustained the greetings of the assembled Whipples and their guests with a practiced coolness, or what looked like it. He shook hands warmly with his brother and Patricia Whipple; was calm under the ordeal of introductions to the little friends Winona had warned him of—two girls of peerless beauty and a fair-haired, sleepy-looking boy with long eyelashes and dimples.
These young people were dressed rather less formally than Winona had expected, being mostly in flannels and ducks and tennis shoes not too lately cleaned. She was instantly glad she had been particular as to Wilbur's outfit. He looked ever so much more distinguished than either Merle or his friend. She watched him as he stood unconcerned under the chatter of the three girls. They had begun at once to employ upon him the oldest arts known to woman, and he was not flustered or "gauche"—a word Winona had lately learned. Beyond her divining was the truth that he would much rather have been talking to Starling Tucker. She thought he was merely trying to look bored, and was doing it very well.
The little friends of Patricia, and Patricia herself, could have told her better. They knew he was genuinely bored, and redoubled their efforts to enslave him. Merle chatted brightly with Winona, with such a man-of-the-world air that she herself became flustered at the memory that she had once been as a mother to him and drenched his handkerchief with perfume on a Sabbath morning. The little male friend of Merle stood by in silent relief. Patricia and her little guests had for three days been doing to him what they now tried doing to the new boy; he was glad the new boy had come. He had grown sulky under the incessant onslaughts.