It was in
vain that their gimlet-like faculties sought to discover flaws in the
eminently fashionable costume of white striped serge, the brand-new
yellow shoes, the jaunty summer necktie, and the appropriate hat,
whereby I was transformed from a plain man to a respectable-looking
member of society. The father who can run the gauntlet of his
children's censorship may look the cold world in the face without a
quaver. Philosophy has taught me this, and it was under the spur of
the philosophic spirit that I had sought out the most expensive and
most fashionable tailor in town, and told him to build me a summer
outfit such as no one could carp at. Expense? He was to spare none.
Cut? The latest and most joyous.
The children clapped their hands and there was a lively chorus of
approval, and I had the satisfaction of hearing Josie, whose hair is
ornamently auburn, and whose face reminds me of her mother at the same
age, declare that I looked "perfectly scrumptious," a sentiment which,
in spite of its flavor of school-girl slang, seemed to express the
critical estimate of the family circle.
"I look like a perfect idiot," I remarked, with becoming modesty, as I
surveyed myself in the glass. I did not think so, all the same.
Indeed, I was saying to myself that I had had no idea I could look so
well.
Pages:
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49