“Setting up? No such luck,” said Miss Robinson, maddeningly good-tempered. “If I could ever see a fellow I didn’t think was awful, I’d begin thinking of setting up. But where are all the men, good gracious? What does a girl ever see, working in holes of offices? Weeds! Indoor weeds, smelling of stale Virginians and wearing Number Thirteen collars.”
“Collars aren’t anything!” Miss Smith flushed an angry pink.
“No; but what they go round are. And I must say I like to see a chap with a good, thick, strong-looking one (that’s why all the nice girls love a sailor, Smithie) with plenty of sunburn and no spots on it, and—Hul-lo, Miss Trant!”
I had turned up at the right moment to prevent a squabble—I and my brand-new hat bought out of Chérisette’s window, no less! and provided by the princely salary.
“I say, Miss Trant, my child, you’re blossoming out!” commented Miss Holt, all eyes and envy. “How much did that roof cost you? It’s a good one.”
“It is rather a good one,” I admitted quietly. “I’m so glad you like it.”
But I said no more until the morning’s work was over and we had trooped back into the dressing-room to get ready for going out at one o’clock. Then:
“I can’t come to lunch to-day,” I said, drawing on the deliciously “fresh”-feeling white gloves I’d bought for myself at the same time as the hat, and giving a glance round the dressing-room to make sure that they all took in the next announcement. “I’m going out.”
“Who with?” seemed to burst, of its own accord, from three pairs of lips at once.