She browbeat him into buying a suit such as those that are worn by jaunty youths in advertisements, including haberdashery of supreme elegance, the first patent-leather shoes worn by this particular Cowan, and a hat of class.  He murmured at the outlay upon useless finery.  It materially depleted his capital—­stored with other treasure in a tin box labelled “Cake” across its front.  But Winona was tenacious.  He murmured, too, at the ordeal of manicuring, but Winona was insistent, and laboured to leave him with the finger tips of one who did not habitually engage in a low calling.

He fell asleep at the final polishing, even after trying to fix his gaze upon the glittering nails of the hand Winona had relinquished, and while she sought to impress him with the importance of the approaching function.  There would be present not only the Whipples, but their guests, two girl friends of Patricia from afar and a school friend of Merle’s; there would be games and refreshment and social converse, and Winona hoped he would remember not to say “darn it” any time in such of the social converse as he provided; or forget to say, on leaving, what a charming time it was and how nice every one had been to ask him.  He dozed through much of this instruction.

Yet Winona, the next day, felt repaid for her pains.  Arrayed in the new suit, with the modish collar and cravat, the luminous shoes and the hat of merit, the boy looked entirely like those careless youths in the pictures who so proudly proclaim the make of their garments.  No one regarding him would have dreamed that he was at heart but a golf caddie or a driver of trucks for hire.  Winona insisted upon a final polish of his nails, leaving them with a dazzling pinkish glitter, and she sprayed and anointed him with precious unguents, taking especial pains that his unruly brown hair should lie back close to his head, to show the wave.

When he installed her beside him in Sharon Whipple’s newest car, pressed upon the youth by its owner for this occasion, she almost wished that she had been a bit more daring in her own dress.  It was white and neat, but not fancy dressmaking in any sense of the word.  She regretted for a moment her decision against pink rosebuds for the hat, so warmly urged by her mother, who kept saying nowadays that she would be a girl but once.  Winona was beginning to doubt this.  At least you seemed to be a girl a long time.  She had been a little daring, though.  Her stockings were white and of a material widely heralded as silkona.  Still her skirt was of a decent length, so that she apprehended no scandal from this recklessness.

When her genteel escort started the car and guided it by an apparently careless winding of the wheel she felt a glow that was almost pride in his appearance and nonchalant mastery of this abstruse mechanism.  She was frightened at the speed and at the narrow margin by which he missed other vehicles and obtruding corners.  When he flourished to an impressive halt under the Whipple porte-cochere she felt a new respect for him.  If only he could do such things at odd moments as a gentleman should, and not continuously for money, in clothes unlike those of the expensive advertisements!