"Hullo!" she called, and he found himself advancing toward Gladys Toy.
Was this active erect woman in her nut-brown sweater and plaited skirt the same as the bejewelled and redundant beauty of so many wearisome dinners? Something of his old interest—the short-lived fancy of a week or two—revived in him as she swung along, treading firmly but lightly on her broad easy shoes.
"Hullo!" he responded. "Didn't know you were here."
"I wasn't. I only came last night. Isn't it glorious?" Even her slow-dripping voice moved faster and had a livelier ring. Decidedly, he admired a well-made woman, a woman with curves and volume—all the more after the stripped skeletons he had dined among the night before. Mrs. Toy had height enough to carry off her pounds, and didn't look ashamed of them, either.
"Glorious? Yes, you are!" he said.
"Oh, me?"
"What else did you mean, then?"
"Don't be silly! How did you get here?"
"On my feet."
"Gracious! From Cedarledge? You must be dead."