Mary Greening and I are good friends for brother and sister. As children we were chums; we abbreviated for each other the middle name we all bore, Mary calling me Stub, and I calling her Stubby. We meant this to express exceptional fraternal fealty. It was like a mystic rite that bound us together.
She came in almost breezily. For a woman in late middle life Mary Greening is comely. There is at the bottom {83} of her nature an indomitable youthfulness, to which her complexion and movements bear happy witness.
"Well, Stub, has Lucretia been here?"
"Come and sit down, Mary. Yes, Lucretia has been here. Very much so," I answered dejectedly.
Mary swept across the room almost majestically. Quite the type of a fine woman is Mary Greening, though perhaps a thought too plump. She threw back her sable stole and unfastened her braided violet coat; she prefers richly embellished garments, though they are thought garish by some of the matrons in her set.
"You keep it much too warm in here," she said critically.
I made a grimace.
"Your hat is a little to one side, Stubby, as usual."
{84}
She put her hand up tentatively to the confection of fur, yellow lace, and violet orchids.