The girl’s color deepened under the brown.
“He isn’t exactly a friend,” she admitted. “I’ve just met and talked with him a few times. But your judgment seemed so unfair, on such a slight basis.”
“I’m sorry I can’t reverse my judgment,” said the Southerner stiffly, “But I know of only one standard for those matters.”
“That’s just your trouble.” Her eyes took on a cold gleam as she scanned the perfection and finish of the man before her. “Fitzhugh, do you wear ready-made clothing?”
“Of course not,” he answered, in surprise at this turn.
“Your suits are all made to order?”
“Yes, Miss Polly.”
“And your shirts?”
“Yes, and shoes, and various other things.” He smiled.
“Why do you have them specially made?”