Evelyn. Then his mamma shouldn’t have named him Philip Etheridge, when she knew his last name must always be Tuttle. Then he is such a pet. I always want to see a big lawn bonnet on those golden curls of his, and see his dear little self in ruffled white dresses, with short socks and blue slippers. Of course the little darling wants a valentine! But I should think he’d make you tired!
Helen. He’s lots nicer than that homely Jack Hamilton. All he thinks of is baseball.
Evelyn. Well, he isn’t soft and sentimental, and—mushy like Pet. I don’t care to lead a nice little poodle-dog around by a blue ribbon.
Helen. You’d prefer a bulldog?
Evelyn. I certainly should. Coming out to mail your precious epistle?
Helen. I am.
Evelyn. Come on, then. (Both pass out.)
Bobby (coming forth again). Now maybe I’ll have a chance. No, here comes Lou!
(Dives out of sight again.)
Louise (entering). I saw you, Bobby Winston! What you hiding for?