“Oh, my party! That I tried to make so nice and gay and festive!”
“They thought those bathing suits were—er—rather bizarre—”
“I didn't get them out of the Bazar! I thought it all up myself. And they made fun of it! Go home, Daisy Snow, I've got to reflect.”
Like a very small, very spanked child, she crawled upstairs on her hands and knees.
It was not her father she wanted now, but an old Petticoat ancestor, dead these two hundred years. Petticoat was dawdling on a chaise longue, absorbed in a small mirror, and wondering whether one more hair out of each eyebrow would strengthen the arch from a purely architectural viewpoint.
“What's the trouble?” Warble asked, “broken down arches?”
“Nope, guess they're all right.”
“Say, Bill,” and she crept into the hollow of his chest, “are folks talking about me?”
“They sure are.”