red, or something. Something that knocks 'em in the eye. And get them at a good place—" He halted diffidently. "I'm taking it for granted you have money"
"I have. Plenty. At least, my father has."
"Oh, if you've got a father—my father is dead and I somehow get in the way of thinking only in terms of mothers—if you have a father, that simplifies matters. Get him in on it. Go back and tell him what an awful weekend you've had at this prom, and why. Tell him what you've told me, and what I'm going to tell you. He'll help you out, I'll bet. Older men understand things like that better than older women do, somehow. Anyway—find yourself a good shop—I'll get the name of a good one in New York for you if you want me to—and put yourself in the hands of some saleswoman that knows her business, and let her rebuild you. That's the idea! Let her give you bright colors for evening and snappy dark things for the street—I don't know what I'm talking about, of course, but I know what looks good to me. They ought to fit like a million dollars, but not be too wild. Modus in rebus—do you know what that means, Cecily?—everything in moderation, nothing too much. For instance; you know this Molly I have here for prom? Well, her clothes are just right—I'll say that for her, But this Winky Willard, the black-eyed one—hers are wrong. They shriek. They're too much. Do you see the difference?"
"I think so," said Cecily.
"You ought to wear those light whatchacallem stockings," Jock continued, warming to his subject increasingly. "The kind that make people wonder whether you have any on at all. They seem to be the thing this season and you've got good-looking legs—
