Honey held up both hands.
"Mercy, Dearie, if you learn to dance on Sixth Avenue, you'll have the Sixth-Avenue stamp to you. The men who dance on Sixth Avenue hire their dress suits on Third Avenue—it all goes together. Heavens," she sighed, breaking off abruptly, "have we built up a Frankenstein monster? Is that dress suit of yours going to prove as voracious as the fabled boa constrictor?"
"This dress suit is going to get all it wants to eat," said Skinner with finality.
Honey was frightened at Dearie's newly developed stamina. Skinner, the acquiescent one, putting his foot down like that!
"But, Dearie," she urged, "it isn't absolutely necessary for us to learn to dance. And, remember, you promised not to spend any more money."
"I told you my dress suit was our engine of conquest—plant! You buy your machinery—your plant. That's the initial cost. Then you have to learn how to run it."
He took out his little book and put down:—
| Dress-Suit Account | |
| Debit | Credit |
Operating expenses. | |
"But you promised," Honey persisted.
"That was before we got this invitation. Things have changed. Promised not to spend any more money? What about my being a sit-in-the-corner, watch-the-other-fellow-dance, male-wallflower proposition, eh?"—and Honey was convicted by her own words.