“Nonsense; but maybe you’re wise to save your energies for an evening dance.”
Several of the young people did dance a few turns, but Chick Channing speedily caused them to halt by announcing the arrival of mushrooms under glass.
“Whoosh!” cried Kit, “back to nature! We can dance at any old time, but mushrooms under glass are an event! I say, Bill, I’m glad the cook didn’t leave with the guests.”
“The whole serving force is under contract for a fortnight longer,” explained Farnsworth. “You can live on mushrooms, if you like.”
“It’s Paradise,” said Marie Homer, ecstatically; “I don’t ever want to go home. Does the mail come regularly?”
Everybody laughed at Marie’s look of anxiety, and Bill replied, “Yes, my child, you can get your daily letter from him up here.”
“He doesn’t write every day,” said Marie, so innocently that they all roared again.
“I wish I had somebody to write love-letters to me,” sighed Patty. “It must make life very interesting.”
“I’ll write them to you,” offered Chick. “It’s no trouble at all, and I’m the little old complete love-letter writer.”
“You’re right here in the spot, though, so that’s no fun. I mean somebody who isn’t here,—like Marie’s somebody.”