Underwear first. Mrs. Lessing went straight at the foundations of Bob's make up, and began to look over boxes of little gossamer shirts and tiny union suits of a fabric so delicately fine that Burns handled a fold of it suspiciously. “Silk?” he questioned. She shook her head, the corners of her mouth curving. “Only a thread now and then. Mostly lisle--for very hot weather. These others have some wool in them, for cooler days. Those nearest you are quite warm, though very light in weight. For really cold weather--” “You're not planning to watch the thermometer and keep him changing underwear accordingly?” “Not at all, Doctor Burns. But four weights for the year aren't too many, are they?” “Are you buying for a year ahead?” “Please let me. I shall not be here when he needs to change.” Their eyes met. Something in hers made him desist from argument. Stockings came next. Mrs. Lessing bought substantial tan ones in quantity, long and well reenforced. Then she took up socks of russet and of white. “Shall you object to his wearing these a good, deal?” she asked Burns. He took up one small sample, running his fingers into it. “I should think he might put his toes through one of those in an hour or two,” he suggested. “His legs are pretty thin. Do you think pipe-stem legs in short socks, to say nothing of bruises and scratches, really attractive?” “You want him to go barefooted a good deal of the time, don't you?” “Sure. But legs in socks are neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring, to my thinking.” In spite of the smile on his lips, he looked obstinate and she deliberated, drawing a white sock unmistakably fine and expensive over her gray-gloved hand. Plainly she wanted to see Bob in socks and strap slippers, of the sort her boy would have worn. As she studied the sock Burns studied her profile. “Get him a pair, for your own satisfaction,” he conceded. He did not hear the order she gave, but the saleswoman was pleasantly smiling as she checked it. The next thing that happened, Bob was being measured. Then he was trying on Russian blouse suits that fitted, practical little garments of blue galatea, of tan-coloured linen crash, even of brown holland. Burns looked on approvingly. The clothes turned Bob into a gentleman's son, no doubt of that, but it was the sort of gentleman's son who can have the very best of romping, good times. Something diverted Bums's attention for a little, and when he turned back to Bob a bright scarlet reefer had been pulled on over his blouse, and a wide sailor hat with a scarlet ribbon crowned his black curls. The result was engagingly picturesque. But the critic frowned. “I'm afraid that won't do, Mrs. Lessing,” he objected decidedly. “You don't like the colour? Not with his hair and eyes?” “It won't hurt his hair, but it will his eyes. The sun on that red will torture him.” “Will it? I shouldn't have thought of it. So many children wear them.”