“Why, does Dorothy ever keep a man waiting?” said the brown-eyed blonde, elevating her eyebrows. “I had understood that she usually met them in the front hall when—”
“Yes, dear, but then I am always dressed to see masculine callers. I have so many, you know. Why, Evelyn, I would not have been late for the world, but my new gown—”
“I’m sure I don’t blame you for it, dear. I couldn’t have helped making a dramatic entry in such a poem myself.”
“But it wasn’t that which made me late, dear. I fancied there was a tiny wrinkle in the back of the waist. After examining it in every mirror in the house, I discovered that it was only the way I twisted my shoulders to look at it, which made the wrinkle.”
“Well, I am glad that your mind is at rest about it, anyhow,” said the girl with the eyeglasses, “one’s back is so defenseless. Annie once sat behind me at the theater, and I endured agonies lest the bow at the back of my collar was crooked. When we came away, I found that she had actually been so absorbed in the people on the stage that she didn’t know I was there. I had been wanting to see that play for months, and, to save my life, I couldn’t have told you a thing in it after I saw it.”
“I know just how you felt,” said the president, “I once went to a matinée with Eustace just before Tom and I were married, and I expected to have great fun, because there was so much danger of being found out. Toward the end of the first act, I heard that horrid Miss Blanque in the seat back of me, saying, ‘Oh, Tom, what would she say if she knew!’ I can tell you that my blood boiled when I thought of such duplicity, and I was tempted to turn and wither them on the spot with a single glance!”
“And did you?” eagerly asked the girl with the classic profile.
“Why—er, no. I thought Tom might ask why I had come with Eustace, though that was very different.”
“Very different, indeed,” said the blue-eyed girl. “And did you—”
“Oh, I didn’t enjoy that play a bit. I told Eustace I had a headache at the end of the second act, and—”