“Most decidedly not!”
Mind you, this answer from Lady Speedway meant red lights ahead.
At the Hotel Biscuit she had the authority of a traffic policeman as to whom were who as well as what was what regarding the foreign colony tirelessly wasting its time on the verge of the tawny Sahara.
She was the Field Marshal of the Front Porch Knitting Needle Hussars, nicknamed “Hussies.”
Her approbation was olive oil; her discountenance prickly heat.
“Of course,” she added, “while recognizing that expatiation does not include brevity, one may not stand as I do now—in the soft light of the balcony and well off the main scene, I hope you observe—without declaring one’s self aggressively out of sympathy with the maddeningly awful expedition of which this dance is the insolubly idiotic inauguration.
“To give my opinion concisely, plainly, briefly, without ratiocinations, fulminations, obscurations, diversions, digressions or nuances, I go on record as saying that this flapper, Verbeena Mayonnaise,—the absurd chit—is impossible!”
“O, me lady!”
“Yes, I am. And that’s more than Verbeena Mayonnaise will find herself if she insists on carrying on in this matter.
“A lone girl, crossing the desert with only native camel drivers and servants in attendance! Chaperoned only by her hand luggage! The idea is rhapsodically rancid!