"Ha ha! he is very big!" giggled Marise. "Quite an out-size."
Zélie could have boxed the ears under the delicious boudoir cap. They deserved to be boxed!
"His soul is big!" the older girl snapped. "I only hope you—I mean, there aren't many women capable of appreciating him. But, of course, you must be, or you wouldn't have succumbed to him so soon."
"Succumbed!" Marise flung back the word with just the least shrug of her shoulders. For an instant the two glared at each other, though "glare" is a melodramatic word which doesn't chime well with nicely-brought-up girls in the twentieth century. When Marise, as a child, had looked at anyone in that way, she called it "snorting with her eyes."
Now, it was only for a third of a second. Then Miss Marks applied herself to the telephone, and never had her neat back looked so square and business-like. There was no more time to waste upon useless repartees with a secretary, so Marise bolted to her own room.
She meant and wished to be dressed and fed in three-quarters of an hour, but never had she quite brought off that feat—at least, never since she'd become a successful star; and she didn't quite bring it off now. Her hair was being done when Mums tapped and entered upon the scene. She looked grave and rather worried, though she never actually frowned, for fear of wrinkles.
"That man Garth has come," she announced in a low voice. "What an hour for a call! Do you wish to see him?"
"I sent for him," Marise explained. "Didn't he tell you? Or haven't you spoken to him?"
"I have spoken to him, but he didn't tell me," said Mary Sorel. "I came into the salon, and there he was with Miss Marks. I was never so surprised in my life!"
"I don't see why, as you know perfectly well I'm going to marry him," returned Marise. "Oh, Céline! you've dug a hairpin about an inch into my head! Now mind, whatever you hear us say must go no further."