“Might have known where to look for something choice,” he remarked. “Now, that hat with the green ribbon and the pink plume is what I call classy, eh, Davy?”
They entered the shop and presently Miss Wilkins appeared with the new gingham on her arm.
“I just managed to do it,” she said, displaying the frock from ingrained habit rather than for criticism.
“Isn’t it a bit short?” asked Bascomb, glancing from her to David.
Miss Wilkins frowned. Bascomb’s countenance expressed nothing but polite interest.
David was preternaturally solemn.
“Don’t mind him, Miss Wilkins. He’s only a surveyor and don’t understand these things at all.”
“Only a surveyor!” muttered Bascomb. “Oh, mother, pin a rose on me.”
He walked about the shop inspecting the hats with apparent interest while the dressmaker folded and tied up the frock. When they had left the place and were strolling up the street, Bascomb took occasion to ask David how long he had been “a squire of suburban sirens.”
“Ever since I came in,” replied David cheerfully.