t the shops selecting
handkerchiefs, or stockings, or feathers, or gloves for the girls.
They always turned out to be the wrong kind, judging by their reception.

From Carrie, "What in the world do I want of long white gloves!"

"I thought you didn't have any," Jo would say.

"I haven't. I never wear evening clothes."

Jo would pass a futile hand over the top of his head, as was his way
when disturbed. "I just thought you'd like them. I thought every girl
liked long white gloves. Just," feebly, "just to--to have."

"Oh, for pity's sake!"

And from Eva or Babe, "I've GOT silk stockings, Jo." Or, "You brought
me handkerchiefs the last time."

There was something selfish in his giving, as there always is in any
gift freely and joyfully made. They never suspected the exquisite
pleasure it gave him to select these things, these fine, soft, silken
things. There were many things about this slow-going, amiable brother
of theirs that they never suspected. If you had told them he was a
dreamer of dreams, for example, they would have been amused.
Sometimes, dead-tired by nine o'clock after a hard day downtown, he
would doze over the evening paper. At intervals he would wake,
red-eyed, to a snatch of conversation such as, "Yes, but if you get a
blue you can wear it anywhere. It's dressy, and at the same time it's
quiet, too." Eva, the expert, wrestling with Carrie over the problem
of the new spring dress. They never guessed that the commonplace man
in the frayed old smoking jacket had banished them all from the room
long ago; had banished himself, for that matter. In his place was a
tall, debonair, and rather dangerously handsome man to whom six o'clock
spelled evening clothes. The kind of man who can lean up against a
mantel, or propose a toast, or give an order to a manservant, or
whisper a gallant speech in a lady's ear with equal ease. The shabby
old house on Calumet Avenue was transformed into a brocaded and
chandeliered rendezvous for the brilliance of the city. Beauty was
here, and wit. But none so beautiful and witty as She. Mrs.--er--Jo
Hertz. There was wine, of course; but no vulgar display. There was
music; the soft sheen of satin; laughter. And he, the gracious, tactful
host, king of his own domain----

"Jo, for heaven's sake, if you're going to snore, go to bed!"

"Why--did I fall asleep?"

"You haven't been doing anything else all evening. A person would
think you were fifty instead of thi