“Oh yes, there’s a new one,” recollected the Baxter girl carefully.
“There must be! He was literally flocculent yesterday.” Miss Howe chuckled. “That can only mean one of two things. Art or——”
“—the lady! Who can doubt? Well, if Carey doesn’t object to his brotherly love continuing, I’m sure I don’t. But I wish it need not involve his missing his appointments.” Mr. Flood eyed his typescript impatiently.
Anita was instantly all tact.
“Oh, we won’t wait. Certainly not. Pull in to the fire. Now, Jasper!”
But Miss Howe, as she swirled into Anita’s special chair, her skirts overflowing either arm, abolished Mr. Flood and his typescript with a movement of her soft dimply hands.
“Oh, I’m not in the mood even for Jasper’s efforts. I want to let myself go. I want to damn publishers—and husbands! Damn them! Damn them! There! Am I shocking you, Miss Summer?”
She smiled at me over their heads. She was always polite to me. I liked her. She was like a fat, pink pæony.
“Well, if you take my advice——” began Anita.
“My darling, I love you, but I don’t want your advice. I only want one person’s advice—ever—and she has got married and is doing her duty in that state of life——Hence I say—Damn husbands! I tell you I want Madala to soothe me, and storm at the injustice of publishers for me, and then—no, not give me a brilliant idea for the last chapter, but make me tell her one, and then applaud me for it. You know, Anita!” She dug at her openly.