"Don't you dare to call them balls, and if I see you in anything more elaborate than a white muslin frock I'll cut your acquaintance."
Ethel's face fell. "Oh, but—" she began.
"My dear, if you want merry-go-rounds, board walks and iron piers, go to Atlantic City. You'll see no décolleté here except on the men. Did you observe Mr. Mitchell's display of neck?"
"Who is he, anyhow? He dresses like a fisherman."
"Lovely!" cried Gwen. "I must tell him, for it is his dearest desire to be taken for one, and he thinks he dresses for the part. Of course he doesn't look the least little bit like those dear graceful creatures with their unstudied picturesqueness and their free swinging strides, but he believes in aping customs and looks as absurd in his get-up as he would in Pekin if he adopted Chinese dress. Can you fancy Cephas in a kimono, by the way?"
"Is that his name? How funny. What's his business?"
"I didn't intend to tell you before I made up my mind whether I should take him for my very own, as I know your 'delutherin' ways, but I shall have to confess that he does with steel, and is said to be worth at least half a million."
"Gwen Whitridge, I don't believe you. That's only funny business on your part."
"It is not. I declare it isn't. I have been looking for a millionaire, lo, these many years, and now I have found one I don't intend to let the first girl, who comes along, step in and rob me of my legitimate prey. So 'keep off the grass.'"
"What about the other one?" asked Ethel.