A five-minute session with the shoe-shining outfit, heretofore despised as a useless nuisance, made them glisten as did the kitchen stove after that Saturday polishing task had been completed. Before him stood the washstand with its cold marble basin, the soap trays, washrags, toothbrushes, and other instruments of torture. He turned on the water and considered a moment as to just how far he should extend the waterline. Still, he was going to a party, her party, and his appearance must be beyond reproach. So he soaped his face vigorously and ran his wet hands around to the back of his neck. Then he surveyed as much of the result of his labors as he could see with a new satisfaction.
He slipped into his little wash blouse hastily. The alarm clock indicated fifteen minutes of the hour and no time was to be lost. But which of his four ties should he wear? His blue one was wrinkled because it had lain beneath the bed for over a week before he had resurrected it. The tan-and-black striped one given him by his uncle was in equally bad condition. And Louise had said she hated green. After all, his brilliant crimson four-in-hand was the nicest. It contrasted with his dark suit the best, anyway.
He presented himself a sheepishly smiling little figure with neatly parted hair, for his mother's inspection. She looked up with a smile.
"If it isn't our little John! And so clean that I scarcely know him. Come here and let me look at your ears."
They were immaculate! Mrs. Fletcher exchanged a glance of mock surprise with her husband. "It's the first time that's happened since he was old enough to wash himself."
John, junior, seized his hat and slammed the door as he sprang down the front steps. Why did grown-ups always carry on so? There was nothing unusual in washing one's ears, was there?
He stopped across the street from the building to watch for a moment. The Martin parlor on the second floor was ablaze with light. Occasionally an adult moved now and then within range of the windows as she shifted chairs to and fro. A boy from Southern Avenue, with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, walked up and into the entrance with an air of unnatural gravity. John could see him give his tie a twitch as he rang the front bell. A brougham drove up and a little girl encased in innumerable fluffy wraps was escorted up the steps by her mother. More girls followed from time to time. Some skipped merrily up to the door; others sauntered more slowly, tittering excitedly as they went along. John decided that it was time to go in.
Up the heavily carpeted stairway, with its ornately panelled wainscoting and brown wallpaper, a half turn to the right, and the goal of the evening lay before him. The stout woman whom he had seen silhouetted in the window greeted him with a gracious smile.
"So this is the John Fletcher of whom Louise is always talking!"
A maid, subsidized for the evening, took his hat and coat away to some mysterious recess. Mrs. Martin led him into the parlor, lighted to a soft glow by deftly shaded electric bulbs.