"Everybody. I am so tired of hearing people praise Beatrix for marrying Sidney Lorimer."
Bobby halted and shook hands with her, to the manifest wonder of the post-ecclesiastical Fifth Avenue throng.
"That's where even your head is level, Sally," he said, as he resumed his stroll. "Do you want to know what I think of her?"
"If you agree with me; not otherwise. I hate arguments, and, besides, it is bad form to condemn one's dearest friend. But keeping still so long has nearly driven me to—"
"Tetanus," Bobby suggested. "Well, my impression of Beatrix is that she is a bally idiot. I don't know just what bally means; but our English brethren apply it in critical cases, and so it is sure to be right. Yes, I think Beatrix is very bally indeed."
"Then you don't approve, either?"
"Me? I? I have hated Lorimer from the start."
"I haven't," Sally said, after a thoughtful interval. "I liked him at first."
"You never saw him at the club," Bobby returned briefly.
"What did he do there?"