"
"H'm; anybody else after Bill?"
"Only May Young."
"And you."
"Oh, me! I'm just a debutante. I'm not after anybody yet."
"Well, you keep off my Petticoat preserves! That Big Bill person is mine--
and I won't stand for any nonsense about that."
"My goodness, Warble, I didn't know you had so much spunk. Lotta says you
haven't any."
"She'll find out! Go on, what else did the cats say?"
"They made fun of your party--"
"Oh, my party! That I tried to make so nice and gay and festive!"
"They thought those bathing suits were--er--rather bizarre--"
"I _didn't_ get them out of the Bazar! I thought it all up myself. And
they made fun of it! Go home, Daisy Snow, I've got to reflect."
* * * * *
Like a very small, very spanked child, she crawled upstairs on her hands
and knees.
It was not her father she wanted now, but an old Petticoat ancestor, dead
these two hundred years. Petticoat was dawdling on a _chaise longue_,
absorbed in a small mirror, and wondering whether one more hair out of
each eyebrow would strengthen the arch from a purely architectural
viewpoint.
"What's the trouble?" Warble asked, "broken down arches?"
"Nope, guess they're all right."
"Say, Bill," and she crept into the hollow of his chest, "are folks
talking about me?"
"They sure are.
Pages:
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73