caterers. Now he discovered that these were small beer.
Although Kay’s closet was bulging with clothes, he learned to his surprise that, for her money (or perhaps for his), it was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Had she been Venus rising from the sea her outfitting problem could not have been more basic.
Because no one would pay any attention to him he was forced to resort to indirect methods. He would open the door of the closet and make playful remarks about the rows of dresses and shoes. He drew subtle comparisons with the children of Europe. He told anecdotes about his grandmother’s frugal girlhood in a parsonage. The only recognition he received was when Kay occasionally pushed him aside with “Please , Pops. Can’t you see you’re right in the way? Why don’t you go downstairs and read? You just don’t understand. ”
At those moments he would be in full agreement with his daughter for the first time in days.
Mrs. Banks’ own costume seemed to be giving her a perplexing amount of trouble. She had interminable and costly telephone conversations with Mrs. Dunstan on the subject.
“What in the world has her dress got to do with yours?” asked Mr. Banks. “Are you two going as Tweedledum and Tweedledee?”
She had interminable and costly telephone conversations with Mrs. Dunstan.
Buckley never lost confidence during these trying times. He appeared each evening like a faithful sheep dog, to spend it staring at Mr. Banks. Neither of them could think of much to say to one another so they usually listened moodily to the radio and to the undertone of women’s voices from the floor above—a never-ending dialogue occasionally punctuated by screams of pleasure. At each scream Mr. Banks winced, for he knew from experience that such female ecstasy is purchased at a high price.
As time went on, however, Buckley began to show signs of alarm. He would revert occasionally to his old theme of simple weddings in little country churches. Mr. Banks said that given his choice he would pick a desert island. Once Buckley asked how much a girl—say a girl like Kay for instance—spent on clothes in the course of a year. Mr. Banks muttered something about millions. The bond of sympathy between them grew stronger daily.
• • •
Ignoring the fact that Kay and Buckley were going to live in a tiny house where Kay, at least, would spend a large part of her time with her head in the oven, she was finally outfitted for every social and sporting event that could conceivably take place between Sun Valley and Hobe Sound.
Mysterious boxes began to arrive. They appeared to be from women who did not have any last names—“Annette,” “Estelle,” “Helene,” “Babette.”
“They sound like a bunch of madams,” said Mr. Banks to no one in particular.
The force of example, however, is like a mighty glacier. Mr. Banks suddenly became clothes-conscious himself. Fortunately, and unlike so many of his friends, he did not have to depend on his wedding cutaway. During those fine, flush days of the twenties he had bought a new one in order to act as best man for some backsliding old bachelor. The twenties were a long way off, however, and although Mr. Banks was proud of his figure, even he was conscious that subtle changes had taken place.
When he had last seen the suit it had been a splendid thing—a badge of old-world aristocracy. Now it lay in an attic trunk under a hailstorm of moth balls. When Mrs. Banks finally dug it out it reminded him of something out of a sailor’s slop chest.
For a long time it lay dejectedly across the chair beside Mr. Banks’ bed. Each day he could think of good reasons for postponing the try-on. In the morning he was too rushed. At night he was too tired. Finally, choosing a moment when no one was around, he slipped out of his business suit and stuck a foot gingerly into a trouser leg like a bather testing the water.
Well, his legs were through at least. A bit snug, perhaps,
Although Kay’s closet was bulging with clothes, he learned to his surprise that, for her money (or perhaps for his), it was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Had she been Venus rising from the sea her outfitting problem could not have been more basic.
Because no one would pay any attention to him he was forced to resort to indirect methods. He would open the door of the closet and make playful remarks about the rows of dresses and shoes. He drew subtle comparisons with the children of Europe. He told anecdotes about his grandmother’s frugal girlhood in a parsonage. The only recognition he received was when Kay occasionally pushed him aside with “Please , Pops. Can’t you see you’re right in the way? Why don’t you go downstairs and read? You just don’t understand. ”
At those moments he would be in full agreement with his daughter for the first time in days.
Mrs. Banks’ own costume seemed to be giving her a perplexing amount of trouble. She had interminable and costly telephone conversations with Mrs. Dunstan on the subject.
“What in the world has her dress got to do with yours?” asked Mr. Banks. “Are you two going as Tweedledum and Tweedledee?”
She had interminable and costly telephone conversations with Mrs. Dunstan.
Buckley never lost confidence during these trying times. He appeared each evening like a faithful sheep dog, to spend it staring at Mr. Banks. Neither of them could think of much to say to one another so they usually listened moodily to the radio and to the undertone of women’s voices from the floor above—a never-ending dialogue occasionally punctuated by screams of pleasure. At each scream Mr. Banks winced, for he knew from experience that such female ecstasy is purchased at a high price.
As time went on, however, Buckley began to show signs of alarm. He would revert occasionally to his old theme of simple weddings in little country churches. Mr. Banks said that given his choice he would pick a desert island. Once Buckley asked how much a girl—say a girl like Kay for instance—spent on clothes in the course of a year. Mr. Banks muttered something about millions. The bond of sympathy between them grew stronger daily.
• • •
Ignoring the fact that Kay and Buckley were going to live in a tiny house where Kay, at least, would spend a large part of her time with her head in the oven, she was finally outfitted for every social and sporting event that could conceivably take place between Sun Valley and Hobe Sound.
Mysterious boxes began to arrive. They appeared to be from women who did not have any last names—“Annette,” “Estelle,” “Helene,” “Babette.”
“They sound like a bunch of madams,” said Mr. Banks to no one in particular.
The force of example, however, is like a mighty glacier. Mr. Banks suddenly became clothes-conscious himself. Fortunately, and unlike so many of his friends, he did not have to depend on his wedding cutaway. During those fine, flush days of the twenties he had bought a new one in order to act as best man for some backsliding old bachelor. The twenties were a long way off, however, and although Mr. Banks was proud of his figure, even he was conscious that subtle changes had taken place.
When he had last seen the suit it had been a splendid thing—a badge of old-world aristocracy. Now it lay in an attic trunk under a hailstorm of moth balls. When Mrs. Banks finally dug it out it reminded him of something out of a sailor’s slop chest.
For a long time it lay dejectedly across the chair beside Mr. Banks’ bed. Each day he could think of good reasons for postponing the try-on. In the morning he was too rushed. At night he was too tired. Finally, choosing a moment when no one was around, he slipped out of his business suit and stuck a foot gingerly into a trouser leg like a bather testing the water.
Well, his legs were through at least. A bit snug, perhaps,
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