“Oh, all right, I don’t care. You’re a caution, Elsie Palmer—you and your made-up tales. Don’t see much difference between them and downright lies, sometimes.”
“Well, what am I to do? I can’t ever go anywhere, or have any amusement, without mother and Geraldine wanting to know all about it, and if I’ve been behaving myself, and ’cetera and ’cetera.”
“Who is it this time, Elsie?”
“Only this fellow who’s leaving to-morrow, the one that’s been P.G. with us such a time, you know.”
“Oh, Roberts?”
“’M. Well, so long, dear. Thanks awfully and all that. Ta-ta. Don’t forget.”
“Ta-ta,” repeated Irene. “You’ll have to tell me all about it on Sunday, mind.”
“Awright.”
Elsie turned and hurried homeward again, shrugging her shoulders up to her ears as the wind whistled shrilly down the street.
It was September, and cold.