“Difference!” she exclaimed sharply, “it makes a considerable difference. Perhaps not to you, but to the lady. What coloring is she?”
“C-coloring? She's white.”
His companion turned her back on him.
“What size is she?”
“A-about that size,” said Jethro, pointing to a model.
“About! about!” she ejaculated, and then she faced him. “Now look here, my friend,” she said vigorously, “there's something very mysterious about all this. You look like a good man, but you may be a very wicked one for all I know. I've lived long enough to discover that appearances, especially where your sex is concerned, are deceitful. Unless you are willing to tell me who this lady is for whom you are buying silk dresses, and what your relationship is to her, I shall leave you. And mind, no evasions. I can detect the truth pretty well when I hear it.”
Unexpected as it was, Jethro gave back a step or two before this onslaught of feminine virtue, and the movement did not tend to raise him in the lady's esteem. He felt that he would rather face General Grant a thousand times than this person. She was, indeed, preparing to sweep away when there came a familiar tap-tap behind them on the bare floor, and he turned to behold Ephraim hobbling toward them with the aid of his green umbrella, Cynthia by his side.
“Why, it's Uncle Jethro,” cried Cynthia, looking at him and the lady in astonishment, and then with equal astonishment at the models. “What in the world are you doing here?” Then a light seemed to dawn on her.
“You frauds! So this is what you were whispering about! This is the way Cousin Ephraim buys his shirts!”
“C-Cynthy,” said Jethro, apologetically, “d-don't you think you ought to have a nice city dress for that supper party?”