“To anybody.”
“Oh, but when was he positively rude to you? How black-hearted of you, Hildegarde, not to tell me that before! You might have known I’d simply love hearing about that.”
Hildegarde laughed. “Why, I haven’t seen you since Thursday.”
“Was it at your birthday party?”
“Yes, at the birthday party.”
“Well, well, how did he do it? What did he say?”
“It was after we’d all been reading the poem that came with Eddie Cox’s present. Louis made fun of it.”
“That was only being rude to Eddie.” Bella’s face fell.
“Wait till you hear. I defended it, of course, and said: ‘It isn’t as easy as it looks to make birthday odes.’ ‘It certainly doesn’t look difficult—to make that kind,’ he said. ‘Then why,’ I said, just to stand up for Eddie, ‘why have you never written a poem about my airy tread?’ And Louis said: ‘Well, there may be another reason, but no girl who stands five foot ten in her stockings and weighs a hundred and fifty pounds need ask it.’ That’s the kind of thing.”