"Dessert, Mother?" Jock had to say it twice before she heard.
"What? Oh, no--I think not."
The waiter hesitated, coughed discreetly, lifted his eyebrows
insinuatingly. "The French pastry's particularly nice to-day,
madam. If you'd care to try something? Eclair, madam--peach
tart--mocha tart--caramel--"
Emma McChesney smiled. "It does sound tempting." She glanced at
Jock. "And we're wearing our gowns so floppy this year that it
makes no difference whether one's fat or not." She turned to the
waiter. "I never can tell till I see them. Bring your pastry tray,
will you?"
Jock McChesney's finger and thumb came together with a snap. He
leaned across the table toward his mother, eyes glowing, lips
parted and eager. "There! you've proved my point."
"Point?"
"About advertising. No, don't stop me. Don't you see that what
applies to pastry applies to petticoats? You didn't think of
French pastry until he suggested it to you--advertised it, really.
And then you wanted a picture of them. You wanted to know
what they looked like before buying. That's all there is to
advertising. Telling people about a thing, making 'em want it, and
showing 'em how it will look when they have it. Get me?"
Emma McChesney was gazing at Jock with a curious, fascinated
stare.
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