Innes began to tell them of her Tucson visit, when Gerty laid down her fork. “I’ve meant to ask you a hundred times. Did you attend to my commission in Los Angeles?”
“I forgot to tell you. I raked the town, really I did, Gerty.” For there was a cloud on Gerty’s pretty brow. “I could have got you the other kind, but you said you did not want it.”
“I should think not.” The childish chin was lifted. “Those complicated things are always getting out of order. Besides, if I had an adjustable form, everybody’d be borrowing it.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Tom, waking up. “Who’d borrow your what, Gert?”
“Please don’t call me Gert, Tom,” besought his wife plaintively. “A figure. I wanted Innes to try to get one for me in Los Angeles.”
“I did try,” began Innes.
“Yours is good enough for any one. Why should you get another?” He was openly admiring the ample bust swelling under the pink gingham.
“Don’t, Tom.”
Innes tried to explain the sincerity of her search. She had visited every store “which might be suspected of having a figure.” She could not bring a smile to her sister’s face. “There was none your size. They offered to order one from Chicago. They have to be made to order, if they are special sizes. You are not stock size, did you know that?”
“I should think not,” cried Gerty, bridling. “My waist is absurdly small for the size of my hips and shoulders.”