“She isn’t a mere woman; she is the queen of women.”
“Crazy again. I don’t see why you want to have so many pictures of her in your room. Let me see; there is one on the dressing bureau, one on the mantelpiece, one on that little table, and another on the wall, and I know perfectly well that you carry around one with you in your purse.”
“But they are all snap shots, and this new one is so much larger and more important, besides the one in my pocketbook is nearly worn out and I shall have to replace it pretty soon. You needn’t talk, for you have shoals of pictures of Marguerite Clark and Esther has just as many of Mary Pickford.”
“But Marguerite Clark is a Girl Scout; she is captain of a troop.”
“Well, so is Mrs. Marriott, at least she was; if it hadn’t been for her I would never have become one, and I should never have met you, so no wonder I adore her.”
“Oh, well, if you put it that way, of course,” responded Winnie. “Let me have another look at the big photograph.”
Joanne gladly produced it. “You can’t say she isn’t lovely,” she remarked.
“Her face is very familiar, but I can’t think why. Either I have seen her or she reminds me of some one I have seen. Oh, now I know; it is Madame Risteau, the concert singer. I have heard her once or twice. She has a lovely voice, and she is very good looking.”
“I don’t believe she is as good looking as my dear Mrs. Marriott, even if there is a resemblance,” returned Joanne putting away the photograph. “She is musical, too, and her son, Bob, plays on the violin like an angel.”
“That reminds me of something. Did you know we girls are to give a concert or have a minstrel show, or something?”