"It is—was Charlotte Russe!" said Nattie, in gloomy despair.
"Charlotte Russe!" echoed Quimby, still turning himself around like a revolving light. "It—it don't look much like it, you know!"
At this, Mr. Stanwood, who had with difficulty suppressed his laughter until now, burst into an uncontrollable roar, in which he was joined by Cyn, and then by Nattie. They laughed until utterly exhausted, Quimby all the time keeping up his rotatory motion, with a face whose lugubriousness cannot be described.
"I—I—bless my soul! I will replace what I have destroyed! I—I assure you, I will!" the unfortunate Quimby groaned, as soon as he could be heard. "I—what can I say, to express my sorrow—I—" and suddenly ceasing to revolve, he snatched Mr. Stanwood's hat, and started for the door.
"Where are you going!" his friend questioned as gravely as he could.
"More Charlotte Russes!" he responded incoherently, and with an agonized face.
"If I may be permitted to make a suggestion," said Mr. Stanwood with labored gravity, "I should say, some little change in your toilet would be quite appropriate before going on the street, and moreover, that my hat will not fit your head!"
At this, Quimby dropped the hat he held as if it had been red-hot, glanced at the chair whereon he had so lately distinguished himself, took up the tails of his coat one in each hand, revolved again, and then without a word darted from the room.
As well as she could from laughing, Cyn called after him, telling him not to mind about getting the Charlotte Russes, and to hurry back, but he made no response.
"Poor Quimby!" said Mr. Stanwood, wiping the tears of excessive mirth from his eyes. "He is such a good fellow, it is too bad he always is in hot water."