I hung up the receiver.
At my request the maid helped me to get into the cream Oriental lace; and at half past eight I made my appearance in the drawing-room, as to dress, looking like a Spanish grande dame, and as to face, looking as yellow, and lonesome, and sour as the fiercest Spanish brigand.
I was introduced to Mr. This-One, and Mr. That-One and Mr. The-Other-One. They all looked alike to me, with high collars, and patent-leather shoes. After awhile there was a little dance, but as I did not know how I had to sit against the wall, and Madam Demill said I must be put under a dancing master at once.
The day following, in the afternoon (all the so-called lessons are gone through in the forenoon, and we have nothing to do but amuse ourselves the rest of the day) a number of the girls came to call on me in my apartments. There were a dozen or more of them present when an arrogant-looking one, with her hair arranged in an immense pompadour over her forehead, from ear to ear, drawled through her nose.
"I suppose you do not love Americans since we beat your country at the battle of Manila?"
"No," I said truthfully, "I do not love Americans." (Of course I mentally excepted grandmother, Professor Ballington, Chauffeur Graham—and Uncle Theodore when he acts nice.)
The girls threw their chins into the air, their eyes shot fire, and I heard several faint sniffs.
Then a slim, golden-haired, blue-eyed girl stepped out from the group, and coming quickly to my side, she put her arm around me and said:
"We'll make her love us!" and she actually touched her rosebud lips to my yellow cheek.