Lois’ definition of comfy was to sit tailor fashion on a bed surrounded by pillows, with jam, crackers and other eatables near at hand.
Polly preferred the window seat, it was broad and cozy, and you could always look out of the window when you wanted inspiration.
“All ready,” Lois said, sitting down. “Give me a pencil. Now, who first?”
“You take Bet, and I’ll take Connie,” Polly said.
They both wrote for a minute, and then Lois read:
“Oh, Betty Thompson, Betty B.,
When you get this please think of me
No, that’s no good.“
“It is good,” Polly protested feebly, “but it’s not especially original.”
“That’s awful,” Lois insisted, drawing a heavy line through the words.
“What’s yours to Connie?”